RUTIt 

BERG  EN'S 

LIMITATIONS 


•7 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 


A    Modern 
Autoda-Fe 


MARION    HARLAND 


New  York          Chicago  Toronto 

Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 


M   DCCC  XCVII 


Copyright,  1897, 

BY 
FLBMIKG  H.  REVELL.  COMPANY 


Contents 

CHAP.  PAQE 

i.  AN  OLD-FAITH  GIRL      ....  9 

n.  "  WOOD,  HAY,  STUBBLE  "  .        .        .  37 

in.  LOCUST-BLOOMS  AND  HIGHER  CRITICISM,  64 

iv.  "DYING,  SIR!  DYING  I "    ...  99 


2138572 


Prologue 

I,  who  write  this  true  story,  am  neither 
theologian  nor  logician.  Therefore  I  have 
no  disposition  to  lend  an  officious  laical  fin- 
ger to  the  composition  of  the  lordly  dish  to 
be  set  presently  before  King  Public  by  theo- 
logical pundits  and  logical  critics. 

Nor  do  1  obtrude  the  subject  of  my  story, 
— who  was  in  no  wise  a  heroine — upon  the 
notice  of  my  reader,  as  a  type  of  a  class, 
large  or  limited.  This  is  biography,  not  fic- 
tion. The  obligation  to  write  it  is  laid  upon 
me  by  a  great  compassion  which  I  cannot  re- 
sist. If  a  lesson  goes  with  the  telling,  it  is 
for  those  who  read  to  find  and  to  apply  it. 

New  York>  1891.      MARION  HARLAND. 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 


AN  OLD-FAITH   GIRL 

IN  Connecticut,  New  Jersey  or  Minnesota, 
Briardale  would  have  been  a  Borough.  It 
had  outgrown  the  chrysalid  of  the  hamlet 
and  the  larva  of  the  village  without  attain- 
ing to  the  light  and  life  of  the  town.  Built 
several  miles  back  from  the  river  and  upon 
a  spur  of  a  great  railway,  it  could  not  be 
commercial.  Although  cuddled  by  hills  that 
leap  up  into  mountains  just  beyond  the 
township  limits,  it  has  nothing  that  would 
make  it  a  fashionable  resort,  unless  accident 
or  the  caprice  of  a  millionaire  or  two  were  to 
break  up  the  order  of  nature  and  conserva- 
tism a  la  Hollandaise.  The  oldest  families 
in  the  place  lived  in  houses  that  were  origi- 
nally the  objective  points  of  extensive  plan- 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

tations,  then,  as  the  population  increased,  of 
farmsteads,  becoming,  at  last,  the  residences 
of  burghers  whose  "grounds"  meant  orna- 
mental lawns  and  kitchen  gardens. 

Garrett  Bergen  was  a  leading  man  in 
Briardale.  The  woolen  mills  of  Bergen  & 
Craig  had  contributed  more  than  any  other 
single  industry  to  the  growth  and  prosperity 
of  the  inland  community.  Mr.  Bergen's 
great-great-grandfather  had  held  thousands 
of  acres  between  and  upon  these  hills,  as  a 
grant  from  the  crown.  His  great-grandfather 
had  deeded  for  that  purpose  the  land  on 
which  the  Reformed  Dutch  church  of  Briar- 
dale  was  built.  To  his  father's  liberality  was 
due  the  fact  that  the  commodious  stone  edi- 
fice in  which  the  congregation  now  wor- 
shipped the  GOD  of  their  fathers,  was  the 
handsomest  church  within  a  radius  of  twenty 
miles  from  the  green  square  in  which  it 
stood.  Garrett  Bergen  had  held  the  office 
of  elder  there  for  thirty  years,  and  for 

twenty  had  been  Superintendent  of  the  Sun- 
10 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

day  School.  His  only  living  son  was  a  lad 
of  ten,  at  the  date  of  my  chronicle,  and  he 
had  three  married  daughters.  The  fourth 
and  youngest  girl,  Ruth,  was  engaged  at 
eighteen,  after  an  eight  years'  courtship,  to 
Robert  Craig,  the  son  of  Mr.  Bergen's 
partner.  Robert  was  then  a  senior  in  Rut- 
gers College.  After  his  graduation  he  en- 
tered, at  his  own  wish,  an  undenominational 
Theological  Seminary,  within  reasonable 
visiting  distance  of  his  native  place  and  his 
betrothed. 

The  combination  of  the  young  peoples' 
destinies  was  entirely  acceptable  to  both 
families.  Elder  Bergen  and  Deacon  Craig 
exchanged  congratulations  in  gruff  and 
guarded  fashion  after  the  manner  of  men, 
over  business  papers,  upon  the  fact  that 
"  family  affairs  seemed,  on  the  whole,  to  be 
shaping  themselves  very  sensibly,"  and  the 
father  of  the  inchoate  divine  returned  thanks 
at  the  family  altar,  and  in  the  Thursday 

evening   prayer-meeting,  that   the    GOD  of 
11 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

the  Covenant  was  faithful  to  His  promises  to 
those  who  put  their  trust  in  Him  and 
brought  up  their  children  in  the  nurture  and 
admonition  of  the  Lord.  It  was  an  open 
church-secret  that  Robert,  Mr.  Craig's  eld- 
est-born, was  dedicated  by  his  parents  to  the 
work  of  the  ministry  while  in  the  cradle,  and 
had  narrowly  escaped  the  name  of  Samuel. 

Mrs.  Craig  discoursed,  cheerfully  and  tear- 
fully, of  the  auspicious  betrothal  to  her  most 
intimate  neighbor,  Mrs.  Bergen. 

"  It  does  seem  as  if  none  of  us  had  ought 
to  doubt  the  leadings  of  Providence  now 
that  my  Robert  is  called  to  the  ministry,  and 
your  Ruth  is  going  to  be  a  minister's  wife," 
was  the  application  of  her  "  remarks."  "  If 
ever  a  girl  was  cut  out  for  that  place  in  the 
Lord's  vineyard,  it's  her.  They're  a  pair  of 
chosen  vessels, — there's  no  manner  of  doubt 
of  that,  and  foreordained  for  one  another. 
Such  matches  don't  happen.  They  are  the 
Lord's  work  and  marvellous  in  unbelieving 

eyes." 

12 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

Ruth  had  no  misgiving  as  to  so  much  of 
her  future  as  depended  upon  Robert's  ability 
and  intention  to  make  her  happy.  She  had 
acknowledged  this  to  him,  many  times  and  in 
divers  ways  in  reply  to  loverly  questionings. 
She  said  it,  voluntarily,  one  Saturday  even- 
ing in  May,  when,  as  was  his  custom,  he  had 
come  home  for  the  Sabbath. 

To  the  betrothed  couple  was  assigned  the 
back  parlor  on  these  hebdomadal  visits.  It 
was  a  large,  square,  low-browed  room,  over- 
looking the  garden  through  the  back  win- 
dows. The  Bergens  were  not  more  pro- 
vincial than  their  neighbors,  and  this  apart- 
ment was  a  fair  sample  of  the  best  room  in 
the  best  houses  of  Briardale.  In  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet,  blue  and  scarlet  roses  alter- 
nated with  fine  impartiality  and  a'  just  disre- 
gard of  possibilities  in  the  matter  of  natural 
growth.  The  wall-paper  had  a  great  (and 
expensive)  deal  of  gilt  in  it ;  the  old  ma- 
hogany furniture — rich  and  ripe  with  fullness 

of  years  that  had  driven  the  color  down  into 
13 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

the  heart  of  the  wood,  where  it  gleamed  as 
though  seen  at  the  bottom  of  a  tankard  of 
old  port, — had  been  re-covered  last  winter 
with  brocaded  plush,  selected  by  Mrs.  Ber- 
gen. The  color  just  missed  being  carmine 
because  it  came  so  near  being  magenta.  It 
put  the  mahogany  hopelessly  out  of  counte- 
nance, but  as  Ruth  was  the  only  one  of  the 
household  who  suspected  this,  little  harm 
was  done.  The  square  piano  was  bought 
when  Anneke,  the  eldest  daughter,  began 
"to  take  music"  thirty  years  ago.  The 
three  tall  glass  shades  on  the  mantel,  the  one 
in  the  middle  protecting  a  gilt  clock,  the 
others  match  vases  filled  with  artificial 
flowers  made  by  Charlotte,  the  second  girl, 
belonged  to  the  same  era.  The  portrait  of 
Cornelius  Bergen,  the  founder  of  the  family 
in  the  New  World,  hung  above  the  clock, 
just  below  the  ceiling ;  that  of  the  present 
owner  of  the  homestead  and  the  likeness  of 
his  wife,  taken  shortly  after  their  marriage, 

occupied   the    niches   on   each   side   of   the 
14 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

chimney.  Other  pictures,  large  and  small, — 
a  couple  of  cheap  landscapes  in  oil,  a  costly, 
— if  time  and  toil  were  considered — picture 
of  Hagar  in  the  Wilderness,  wrought  in 
colored  silks  by  Garrett  Bergen's  mother ;  an 
engraving  of  Hope  and  Memory ;  a  litho- 
graph of  The  Angelus,  and  various  family 
photographs  were  disposed  between  ceiling 
and  the  chair-board  below  which  the  walls 
were  wainscoted.  A  mahogany  bookcase 
with  small  paned  glass  doors,  stood  between 
the  windows.  The  contents  were  mainly 
historical,  memoir-ial  and  religious.  On  the 
shelf  devoted  to  fiction  were  The  Wide,  Wide 
World,  Melbourne  House,  Pilgrim's  Progress, 
The  Schoriberg-  Gotta  Family,  Ester  Reid,  The 
Prince  of  the  House  of  David,  Stepping 
Heavenward  and  four  of  the  Elsie  Dinsmore 
Series. 

I  describe  this  room  and  would  convey  a 
whiff  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  Ruth  Ber- 
gen was  born  and  had  lived  from  babyhood, 

because  these  tell  for  much  in  her  character 
15 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

and  history.  She  had,  it  is  true,  spent  two 
terms  in  a  New  York  school,  but  her  home 
while  there  was  with  a  married  sister  whose 
husband  was  in  business  in  that  city,  and  she 
was  in  Briardale  from  Friday  evening  to 
Monday  morning  of  each  week.  Her  Sun- 
day School  class  was  prominent  on  her  list  of 
duties,  and  she  preferred  her  pastor's  sermons 
to  those  of  the  "  big  preachers  "  of  the  metrop- 
olis. She  was  esteemed  a  "rather  pretty 
girl "  by  her  acquaintances.  The  qualifying 
word  would  have  seemed  invidious  to  one 
seeing  her  for  the  first  time  on  this  evening. 
She  was  twenty-two  years  of  age,  with  the 
still  unformed  figure  of  a  girl  of  fifteen. 
Her  chest  was  flat  and  her  shoulders  sloped 
sharply  from  their  junction  with  the  neck. 
The  gown  she  wore  remedied  these  defects 
to  the  beholder's  eye.  She  had  made  it  her- 
self and  exultantly  announced  the  fact  to 
her  lover.  All  ministers  were  poor,  accord- 
ing to  her  showing — or  ought  to  be.  Their 

wives    ought,   assuredly,   to    study  and  to 
16 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

practice  economy.  She  had  taken  lessons  in 
dressmaking  privately,  running  down  to  New 
York  once  a  week  for  the  purpose,  for  two 
months  and  more. 

"But  I  made  this  myself — every  stitch — 
and  here  at  home.  Even  mother  did  not  see 
it  until  tea  time  this  evening.  Aren't  you 
just  a  little  bit  proud  of  me  ?  "  she  had  said, 
making  a  bewitching  pretence  of  strutting 
up  and  down  the  room,  turning  her  head 
over  her  shoulder  to  see  how  the  back- 
breadths  hung,  and  picking  at  the  fullness  of 
the  upper  parts  of  the  sleeves  with  profes- 
sional touches  of  her  deft  fingers. 

The  gown  was  of  soft  woolen  stuff,  creamy 
white,  and  falling  naturally  into  generous 
folds  in  the  skirt  and  in  the  full,  round  waist 
girdled  by  a  silken  sash,  also  cream  white, 
with  broad  bows  at  the  back.  She  looked 
almost  plump  and  undeniably  graceful.  A 
bunch  of  cinnamon  roses  was  in  her  corsage 
and  her  cheeks  had  caught  color  from  them. 

She  wound  up  the  exhibition   by  a  little 
2  17 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

whirl  upon  her  toes  that  came  near  being  a 
pirouette  and  which  surprised  her  full  skirt 
into  sinuous  swirls,  dipped  dexterously  un- 
der the  arm  that  would  have  caught  her, 
and  was  straightway  as  demure  as  a  nun. 

"  That's  enough  of  nonsense  for  one  even- 
ing," she  declared  with  a  resumption  of  her 
habitual  decorum  and  speaking  like  a  matron 
of  twice  her  years.  "  Saturday  evening, 
too  !  I  am  ashamed  of  us  both.  I  think  the 
Spring  weather  has  got  into  my  head — and 
my  heels." 

Yet  it  was  a  good  hour  later  when  she 
brought  out  her  Bible  and  "  Lesson  Paper," 
and  asked  Robert's  assistance  in  preparing 
for  to-morrow's  class.  She  looked  grave,  but 
none  the  less  happy — Robert  thought  her 
prettier — than  when  the  frolicsome  mood  had 
possessed  her,  as  she  glanced  up  at  him  from 
her  low  chair  under  the  centre-table  lamp. 
Her  hair  was  light  chestnut  and  the  semi-pir- 
ouette had  separated  the  natural  waves  into 

fluffy  rings.     As  Robert  contemplated  them 
18 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

from  one  particular  point  of  view  they  had 
a  nimbus  effect  about  the  pure  face.  Her 
gray  eyes  showed  soft  and  clear  under  long 
lashes.  Her  betrothed  could  not  have  re- 
called if  he  had  tried — which  he  did  not 
think  of  doing — a  moment  of  his  twenty-four 
years  of  conscious  existence  in  the  which 
he  had  been  better  satisfied  with  her,  with 
his  lot  in  life  and  with  himself,  than  he  was 
now. 

Robert  Craig's  eyes  were  black  and  well- 
rounded  ;  his  hair  and  neat  moustache  were 
likewise  black;  his  fine  teeth  made  a  pleas- 
ant gleam  between  red  lips  that  parted 
readily  in  smiling  speech.  He  had  an  in- 
telligent face  and  an  easy  address  that  made 
him  popular  wherever  he  went.  He  loved 
Ruth  Bergen  sincerely — he  would  have  said, 
devotedly.  He  also  loved  his  profession  and 
honestly  meant  to  quit  himself  like  a  man  in 
it.  His  devotion  to  Robert  Van  W}-ck 
Craig,  who  would  be  a  "  Reverend "  in 

thirteen  months,  and  a  D.  D.  in  ten  years,  or 
19 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

less,  was  above  doubt  as  to  genuineness  and 
degree.  He  was  the  first  college-bred  man 
in  the  Craig  family.  That  tells  the  whole 
story  to  those  who  have  made  self-made  men 
and  their  kindred  a  study. 

I  like  to  think  of  Ruth  as  she  looked  and 
behaved  that  evening.  The  sweet  humility 
and  delicate  spiciness  of  the  old-fashioned 
spring  roses  had  affinity  with  the  honesty  of 
belief  and  rectitude  of  purpose,  the  single- 
ness of  faith  in  her  GOD,  the  loyalty  to  her 
lover,  the  artlessness  of  happiness,  that  in- 
formed her  nature.  These  characteristics 
were  Herself.  Beyond  these,  and  a  fair 
share  of  sterling  common  sense  inherited 
from  her  father,  there  was  little  in  her  that 
was  not  commonplace.  Robert  had  enjoyed 
her  little  outburst  of  girlish  gayety  to-night 
the  more  because  it  was  unusual.  She  was 
uniformly  cheerful  and  never  morbid,  but,  as 
he  had  often  told  her,  in  tender  chiding,  she 
took  life  too  seriously.  Sometimes  he  named 

her  his  "  quaint  little  saint."     Had  she  found 
20 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

and  used  the  key  to  the  "  Little  Green 
Door  "  of  Miss  Wilkins's  charming  fantasy, 
and  walked,  just  as  she  was,  into  a  New 
England  Puritan  household  of  1696,  she 
would  have  been  comfortably  at  home.  By 
the  time  she  was  six  years  old  she  knew  the 
Apostles'  Creed,  the  Golden  Rule,  the  Ten 
Commandments  and  the  first  sixteen  verses 
of  the  fifth  chapter  of  Matthew.  At  ten,  she 
was  awarded  a  prize  Reference  Bible — an 
Oxford  Edition — for  reciting,  without  once 
tripping  or  faltering,  the  whole  of  The 
Shorter  Catechism.  This  Bible  she  had 
read  through  every  year  since  that  Anniver- 
sary-Sabbath, never  skipping  one  of  the 
Sons  of  Levi,  or  slurring  over  a  chapiter  of 
molten  brass  or  a  moan  of  Lamentations. 
Three  chapters  on  each  working  day  and 
five  on  Sunday,  brought  her  through  at  an 
easy  pace  and  invariably,  on  December 
thirty-first.  After  saying  her  prayers  that 
night  with  especial  fervency,  she  slipped  the 

ribbon  bookmark  with  "  GOD  is  LOVE,"  em- 
21 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

broidered  upon  it,  back  to  the  first  chapter 
of  Genesis,  and  fell  to  work  upon  it  in  good 
heart  on  New  Year's  Day.  She  read  one  — 
sometimes  two — chapters  before  leaving  her 
room  for  the  breakfast  table.  Perhaps  it 
would  not  be  an  actual  sin  to  read  a  secular 
sentence  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  but 
she  never  did.  She  told  Robert  once,  shyly, 
of  her  feeling  that  even  a  few  verses  sancti- 
fied the  new  day.  It  would  be  surprising,  if 
it  were  not  natural,  she  added  yet  more 
timidly — like  one  who  lifts  a  corner  of  the 
cloth  covering  the  sacramental  board — how 
often  the  lesson  for  the  morning  was  exactly 
what  she  most  needed. 

Upon  her  sixteenth  birthday  a  class  was 
assigned  to  her  and  she  became  a  teacher  in 
the  Sunday  School  in  which  she  had  sat  as  a 
pupil  from  the  day  of  her  enrollment  in  the 
Infant  Department, — a  sedate  little  tot  of 
three.  She  was  an  active  member  of  the 
Society  of  Christian  Endeavor — no  idle  title 
so  far  as  she  was  concerned — a  King's 

22 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

Daughter  who  lived  earnestly  and  meekly 
up  to  her  pledge  to  walk  and  to  work  "  In 
His  Name."  Happy,  sincere  and  useful,  she 
found  her  sphere  as  wide  and  as  high  as  she 
could  have  desired.  When  Robert  Craig 
decided  to  enter  the  Theological  Seminary, 
she  was  almost  terrified  at  thought  of  the 
sacred  eminence  awaiting  her  as  a  pastor's 
wife.  For  days  thereafter,  she  went  quietly 
through  her  round  of  simple  duties  with  a 
look  upon  her  young  face  that  actually  awed 
her  parents — a  look  of  tender  joy,  of  pro- 
found humility,  of  high  resolve,  she  had  no 
words  to  express.  It  was  like — "  Be  it  unto 
me  according  to  Thy  word" 

This  was  not  her  first  excursion  into  the 
realm  indicated  by  the  Lesson  Paper  dated 
" May  16th"  She  was  too  conscientious  to 
scamp  a  religious  duty.  Her  habit  was  to 
make  a  note  of  such  points  as  were  not  clear 
to  her,  and  to  seek  illumination  from  Robert 
during  his  Saturday  evening  visit. 

The   lesson   for  the  morrow,  as  she  had 
23 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

abundant  cause  to  recollect  forever,  was  the 
twelfth  chapter  of  Matthew,  from  the  thirty- 
eighth  to  the  fiftieth  verses  inclusive.  She 
had  consulted  the  Book  of  Jonah  in  obedi- 
ence to  marginal  references,  and  appealed 
to  her  betrothed  for  information  as  to  the 
city  of  Nineveh.  His  sketch  of  her  history, 
overthrow  and  antiquities,  was  hardly  love- 
talk,  but  the  softly  shining  eyes  rested  ad- 
miringly upon  his  face  while  the  lecture  was 
in  progress.  When  he  ceased  to  speak,  she 
caught  his  hand  and  laid,  first,  her  flushed 
cheek,  then  a  kiss,  within  the  palm,  in  a 
modest  ecstasy  of  adoration. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  sighed,  rapturously.  "  How 
much  you  know,  and  how  good  and  hand- 
some you  are !  and  I  am  afraid  that  I  love 
you  better  than  I  love  my  own  soul." 

Robert  stooped  to  the  tremulous  lips  and 
patted  her  head  benevolently  and  indul- 
gently before  deprecating  the  imputation 
of  milk-white  saintliness  which,  for  reasons 

occult  to  the  simpler  sex,  is  no  more  flat- 
24 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

tering  to  men  of  his  profession  than  to  the 
laity. 

"That  shows  how  little  you  know  of 
naughty  human  nature,  my  sweet.  I  am  the 
chief  of  sinners  except  in  my  love  for  the 
dearest  girl  in  the  universe,  who  is  a  thou- 
sand times  too  good  for  me,  or  for  any  other 
coarse-fibred  man."  Holding  her  in  the  hol- 
low of  his  left  arm,  he  picked  up  the  Bible 
that  had  slidden  to  the  floor  from  her  lap. 

"  We  will  make  an  end  of  business  before 
talking  of  our  own  affairs.  Leaving  profane 
for  religious  romance,  have  you  any  ques- 
tions to  ask  about  Jack-and-the-bean-stalk, 
alias  Jonah-and-the-gourd?  " 

Accustomed,  as  a  divinity-student,  to 
handle  Scripture  as  a  carpenter  takes  hold 
of  plane  and  adze,  he  did  not  at  once  inter- 
pret the  shocked  pallor  of  the  upraised  face. 

"  O,  Robert  I  " 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  " 

"  You  startled  me  a  little — that's  all !     I 

know  you   didn't  mean  to  say  that.     You 
25 


Iluth  Bergen's  Limitations 

would  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
speak  lightly  of  GOD'S  Word." 

Robert  pulled  down  the  waistcoat  that 
already  showed  an  inclination  in  cut  toward 
the  strait-breasted  vestment  which  would, 
ere  long,  cover  his  consecrated  heart.  He 
swallowed  something  he  analyzed  as  a  fool- 
ish scruple,  before  replying.  There  was  to 
be  a  time  in  his  future  when  he  would  recall 
sensation  and  effort,  and  the  memory  would 
salve  remorse. 

"  You  are  right  there,  dear  child — when  I 
am  assured  that  it  is  the  Word  of  GOD." 

"  But  the  Bible  is  that,  Robert !  " 

Even  then, — or  so  he  would  fain  have  per- 
suaded himself  in  that  remorseful  after-time 
— he  would  have  let  the  matter  drop,  but 
for  a  touch  of  prim  severity  in  her  tone  and 
look  that  irked  his  manly  sense  of  superi- 
ority to  censure  or  schooling  from  his  neo- 
phyte. True,  Ruth  had  not  yet  been  told 
that  his  thesis  upon  "  The  Authors  of  the 

Alleged  Prophecy  of  Isaiah,"  had  been  but 
26 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

yesterday  commended  by  his  Professor  of 
Biblical  Theology  as  "thoughtful  and  sug- 
gestive." Still,  she  knew  him  for  her  senior 
in  years,  her  master  in  mind  and  her  pro- 
spective husband.  Furthermore, — the  chain 
of  thought-lightning  reaching  fast  and  far — 
as  the  wife  of  a  man  of  advanced  thought, 
she  must  be  lifted  out  of  her  limitations. 
She  was  a  dear  girl  and  a  sensible,  or  she 
would  not  appreciate  him  so  thoroughly. 
But  Briardale  was  a  stunted  twig  of  Chris- 
tendom. The  rocky  ramparts  and  the  Dutch 
element  in  the  settlement  had  kept  from  it 
even  the  knowledge  of  the  world's  forward 
march.  The  tone  of  the  community  was 
essentially  provincial  and  in  nothing  more 
provincial  and  slow  than  in  religion.  Ruth 
was  capable  of  better  things.  He  would  edu- 
cate her  up  to  them. 

All  this  was  thought  out  so  consecutively 
and  rapidly  that,  if  his  companion  noted  his 
hesitation  it  went  naturally  with  the  tug  to 
his  waistcoat  which  she  had  already  observed 

27 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

had  one  more  button  and  showed  less  of  his 
shirt-front  than  had  the  garment  discarded 
for  this. 

"You  refer  to  King  James's  version  of 
the,  then,  so-called  Canon  of  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures, dear  child.  It  was  translated  three 
hundred  years  ago  'out  of  the  Original 
sacred  Tongues '  as  the  address  to  the  '  most 
dread  Sovereign '  sets  forth," — opening  her 
Bible  at  the  introductory  pages — •"  by  learned 
men  of  that  time.  The  scholars  of  to-day 
have  more  learning  than  they,  and  other 
sources  of  knowledge — ancient  manuscripts 
and  the  like — of  which  those  early  transla- 
tors were  ignorant.  So  we  are  finding  out 
new  things  about  the  Bible  every  day." 

He  chose  everyday  modes  of  speech  in  con- 
cession to  her  limitations.  The  alarmed  gaze 
of  the  gray  eyes  made  him  uncomfortable. 
He  must  allay  her  fears  before  she  could  be 
enlightened. 

"  Yes,   Robert,  dear,  but  they  can't  find 

out  that  any  part  of  it  isn't  true,  because  it 
28 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

is  GOD'S  Word.  All  the  learned  men  in  the 
world  can't  do  away  with  that." 

He  put  his  hand  upon  the  fingers  spread 
over  the  open  page.  They  were  tense  and 
cold,  and  he  felt  that  they  pressed  the  book 
hard. 

"  Little  one  !  let  me  tell  you  a  story  " — - 
playfully  tender.  "  Once  upon  a  time, — 
more  than  two  thousand  years  ago — a  sibyl, 
(that  is  a  sort  of  prophetess,  you  know) 
brought  a  book  to  the  King  of  Rome  and 
offered  to  sell  it  to  him  at  a  large  price. 
When  he  refused  to  buy  it  she  tore  out  a 
handful  of  leaves,  burned  them  before  his 
eyes,  and  went  away.  The  next  day  she  was 
at  court  again  and  wanted  the  same  price  she 
had  asked  before,  although  so  many  leaves 
were  gone.  The  king  would  not  listen  to 
her.  She  burned  another  handful  of  leaves 
and  went  her  way.  On  the  third  day  she 
was  there  once  more,  demanding  the  same 
price  for  what  was  left  that  she  had  asked 

for  the  whole.     Then,  the  king  consulted  the 
29 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

wise  men,  the  augurs.  They  told  him  that 
he  ought  to  have  bought  the  book  at  the 
woman's  price  in  the  first  place,  and,  by  all 
means,  to  secure  what  was  left. 

"That  is  the  fable  of  The  Sibyl's  Leaves. 
Now,  what  is  called  The  Higher  Biblical 
Criticism  has  done  to  the  Bible  what  the 
Sibyl  did  to  that  book,  with  one  very  im- 
portant difference.  It  has  torn  out  and 
thrown  aside  doubtful  and  worthless  matter, 
burned  away  the  dross  from  the  pure  gold  of 
Revelation,  and  claims  for  what  is  left  the 
same  price,  that  is,  the  same  tribute  of  rev- 
erence and  love,  that  used  to  be  given  to  the 
Old  Bible." 

If  Robert  Van  Wyck  Craig  had  ever  had 
misgivings  as  to  the  genuineness  of  his  call 
to  preach,  they  would  have  been  swept  away 
by  the  tide  of  complacent  surprise  that  flowed 
in,  upon,  and  over  him,  Avith  the  delivery  of 
this  little  speech.  The  anecdote  was  an  in- 
spiration. So  apt  was  it,  so  cogent  and  so 

elegant  in  finish,  that  he  docketed  it  mentally 
30 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

for  future  use.  He  experienced  a  fleeting 
pang  of  regret  that  the  inspiration  had  not 
been  "  on  time,"  that  it  might  have  been  in- 
corporated in  his  thesis.  But  there  would 
be  other  and  finer  opportunities,  as  there 
would  be  other  and  finer  audiences.  He 
was,  next,  aware  of  a  distinct  disappointment 
that  no  glimmer  of  admiration  relieved  the 
shocked  pallor  of  which  he  began  to  be  im- 
patient. The  tight,  chilled  fingers  did  not 
yield  themselves  to  his  fondling.  Indeed 
their  owner  seemed  not  to  be  aware  that 
they  were  caressed.  Her  lips  were  lax  when 
she  would  have  formed  words,  and  she  put 
up  her  left  hand  to  press  them  into  steadi- 
ness. 

"They  ought  to  be  very  sure  what  they 
are  doing,"  she  said,  in  her  commonplace 
phraseology,  but  solemnly.  "  There  ought 
not  to  be  any  doubt  whatever.  It  is  an 
awful  thing  to  add  to  anything,  or  take  away 
from  anything  that  is  written  in  this  Book. 

You  remember  what  St.  John  says  of  that 
31 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

sin  in  the  last  chapter  of  Revelations.  I 
heard  Dr.  Van  Saun  say  once  that  it  seemed 
as  if,  when  the  Spirit  had  dictated  everything 
else  to  St.  John,  He  held  the  Book  open  for 
a  few  moments  longer  on  purpose  to  put  that 
warning  there. 

"  If  I  had  the  wisdom  of  Solomon  and  the 
learning  of  all  the  colleges  and  seminaries  in 
the  world,  I  should  not  dare  to  leave  out  one 
word.  No !  not  so  much  as  the  dotting  of 
an  i  or  the  crossing  of  a  t.  It  would  be  like 
laying  your  hand  upon  the  Ark  of  the 
Lord." 

"  My  precious  child ! "  As  the  sense  of 
exasperation  grew  he  studied  to  make  his 
address  affectionate,  as  his  mother  used  to 
wrap  his  pill  in  scraped  apple  and  bury  his 
powders  in  jam.  "  Do  you  know  that  all 
that  is  rank  superstition?  that  you  are  a 
Bibliolater — a  blind  worshiper  of  the  Bible? 
Instead  of  looking  upon  this  " — tapping  the 
cover — "as  a  mere  book — paper,  print  and 

binding,  and  nothing  more  in  and  of  itself — 
32 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

you  throw  a  sort  of  halo  about  it,  and  handle 
it  as  a  Roman  Catholic  handles  her  crucifix 
or  her  scapula.  That  is  sheer  folly,  a  Prot- 
estant phase  of  idolatry  that  I  am  sorry  to 
say  is  encouraged,  instead  of  rebuked,  by 
many  preachers  and  Sunday  School  teachers, 
especially  in  our  branch  of  the  Church." 

Ruth  was  motionless.  Pier  downcast  eyes 
were  upon  the  book  in  her  lap.  Her  heart 
beat  hurriedly  against  her  lover's  enfolding 
arm.  Her  features  were  cut  out  of  sallow 
marble.  The  effect  was  not  becoming.  He 
had  never  surmised  until  now  what  the  ob- 
stinacy of  an  amiable  woman  might  be  like. 
He  must  not  lose  his  temper  in  the  warmth 
of  the  one-sided  argument.  He  threw 
another  parallel  forward,  in  judicial  cheer- 
fulness. 

"  Here,  for  example  is  this  story  of  Jonah," 
— with  a  little  laugh.  "  Poor  Jonah  !  Every- 
body has  a  shy  at  him,  and  really  the  tale  is 
undignified  enough  to  justify  a  joke.  Schol- 
ars have  long  been  divided  in  opinion  as  to 
3  33 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

whether  it  is  a  history,  or  a  parable.  It 
seems  most  natural  to  regard  the  book  as  an 
allegory,  the  materials  for  the  narrative  being 
derived  from  the  symbolical  language  em- 
ployed by  earlier  prophets,  chiefly  that  of 
Jeremiah." 

Involuntarily  he  made  this  a  sustained 
recitative,  and  Ruth  gained  the  impression 
that  he  quoted  verbatim,  doubtless  from  one 
of  the  learned  men  aforesaid. 

"  If  Jonah  were  a  real  personage  and  the 
people  of  Nineveh  were  converted  by  his 
preaching,  that  conversion  can  only  have 
been  temporary,  as  may  be  clearly  perceived 
from  what  we  read  in  the  prophets  concern- 
ing the  inhabitants  of  that  city.  In  short  " 
— relapsing  into  a  colloquial  vein — "  they 
fell  speedily  and  permanently  from  grace. 
The  best  authorities  now  agree  that  the  book 
is  a  fiction  and  so  absurd  throughout  that  the 
lovers  of  the  winnowed  Scriptures  may  re- 
joice together  that  it  is  thrown  out  of  the 
canon.  I,  for  one,  prefer  to  class  it  with 

34 


An  Old-faith  Girl 

Jack-and-the-bean-stalk  rather  than  insult 
the  intelligence  of  educated  Christians  by  in- 
sisting upon  a  whale  capable  of  swallowing 
a  prophet  whole,  and  a  prophet  capable  of 
remaining  alive  for  three  days  between  the 
monster's  ribs,  and  level-headed  enough  to 
compose  a  psalm  in  such  confined  quarters, 
(which  psalm,  by  the  way,  is  mainly  made  up 
of  other  psalms,  many  of  a  late,  and  even 
post-exilic  date) — finally  of  tickling  the 
whale's  diaphragm  to  make  him  cast  the 
prophet  out  upon  the  land." 

He  stopped  to  laugh.  Ruth's  gravity  did 
not  relax.  A  crease  showed  between  her 
eyebrows.  Her  voice  was  harder,  and  the 
sub-tone  of  prim  severity  more  evident. 

"  But  Robert,  that  was  a  miracle.  Nobody 
pretends  that  it  was  anything  else." 

The  lover  held  himself  in  by  main  force 
and  by  a  palpable  exercise  of  Christian  for- 
bearance. His  recitative  was  hortatory. 

fc-  My    darling    girl,    the    miracles   of    the 

Bible  were  the  work  of  GOD,  either  by  direct 
35 


Ruth   Bergen's   Limitations 

divine  energy,  or  mediatelj-  through  holy 
men,  energized  to  perform  them.  There  is 
no  reason  why  we  should  claim  that  they  in 
any  way  violate  the  laws  of  nature,  or  dis- 
turb its  harmonies.  We  ought  not  to  be 
disturbed  by  the  efforts  of  scholars  to  explain 
them  under  the  forms  of  divine  law,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  order  of  Nature." 

Letting  himself  down  again  to  the  auditor's 
intellectual  level,  he  pursued  ; — "  The  whale 
episode  was  an  outrage  upon  natural  laws 


He  dropped  his  arm  from  her  waist  and 
pushed  his  chair  a  few  inches  away  from  hers 
at  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall.  Ruth 
slipped  out  through  the  front  parlor,  as  her 
father  entered  the  back  parlor  door. 

The  t&te-a-tete  was  over  for  the  evening. 


36 


II 

"  WOOD,  HAY,  STUBBLE." 

ROBERT  CRAIG  was  in  dutiful  waiting  for 
his  betrothed  next  day  at  the  church-door 
when  the  congregation  streamed  out  into  the 
open  air. 

The  day  was  a  poem  of  tender  color  and 
subtle  perfume,  and  sunlight  strained  through 
the  atmosphere  of  fifteen  perfect  May  noons. 
The  hum  of  multitudinous  bees  in  the  two 
gigantic  lindens  flanking  the  church-porch, 
planted  by  the  second  Cornelius  Bergeii's 
own  hands,  was  audible  to  the  worshipers 
in  the  pauses  of  the  services.  Old  residents 
liked  the  accompaniment  to  prayer  and  ser- 
mon, and  told  stranger-visitors  how  three 
generations  had  listened  to  the  same.  The 
gardens  on  both  sides  of  the  crooked  street 
blazed  with  tulips  and  narcissus  and  gave  up 

royally  the  breath  of  warmed  hyacinth  and 
37 


Ruth  Bergcn's  Limitations 

•violet-beds.  Pale-purple  swaths  of  wistaria 
hid  the  front  of  the  parsonage  next  door  to 
the  church.  Every  feathered  creature  that 
knew  a  note  of  music  exploited  it  in  the  elms 
and  maples  bordering  the  highways. 

Our  young  theologue  had  made  himself 
smarter  than  his  well-set  up  wont,  in  a  Prince 
Albert  coat  with  indications  of  coming  dig- 
nities in  the  lines  of  lappels  and  collar,  and 
closed  over  the  chest  as  far  as  buttons  and 
buttonholes  went.  His  trousers  were  gray, 
the  creases  sharp  from  the  tailor's  iron. 
Upon  the  left  lappel  of  the  Prince  Albert 
were  two  sprays  of  lilies -of-the  valley,  minus 
the  green  leaves.  Our  hero  was  up  in  the 
minutest  details  of  fashionable  costume.  His 
tall  silk  hat  sat  squarely  upon  his  classic 
head.  In  mood  and  tense  he  was  as  well 
set-up  as  in  figure,  and  in  temper  as  mellow 
as  the  weather.  His  was  a  sweet  nature,  and 
the  trifling  irritation  excited  by  Ruth's  back- 
wardness in  receiving  into  a  good  and  honest 

mind  the  advanced  views  he  had  embraced 
38 


"Wood,  Hay,  Stubble" 

with  enthusiasm,  seemed  petty  and  ungener- 
ous when  he  thought  it  over.  The  blessed 
child  could  not  help  being  narrow.  Briar- 
dale  was  a  cold  frame,  in  which  orthodoxy 
was  cultivated  after  the  manner  of  the  fore- 
fathers. It  was  rooted  and  grounded  in 
Dutch  soil,  which  is  notoriously  intractable 
to  critical  extractives  and  imported  fertilizers. 
What  but  slowness  of  intellectual  under- 
standing could  be  expected  of  Elder  Bergen's 
daughter  and  Dominie  Van  Saun's  pet  pa- 
rishioner ?  Dominie  Van  Saun,  who  believed 
in  the  literal  resurrection  of  the  human 
body,  and  who  had  sturdily  asserted,  two 
Sundays  agone,  that,  while  he  did  not  de- 
clare that  the  world  was  created  in  six  days 
of  twenty-four  hours  each,  he  was  prepared 
to  say  that  GOD  could  have  done  this  if  He 
had  pleased  so  to  do  ! 

The  amused  smile  still  lighted  his  eyes  as 
he  lifted  his  hat  and  fell  into  step  with  Ruth 
on  the  church-steps.  She  met  it  with  a 

pretty    blush    and    responsive    smile.     The 
3'J 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 
slight  shadow  that  had  overhung  her  during 

o  o  o 

the  latter  part  of  last  evening  had  departed. 
He  had  not  known  that  he  was  depressed  by 
it  until  his  heart  bounded  anew  at  missing 
it. 

"  How  charming  3rou  are  to-day!"  lie 
uttered  it  in  sincere  warmth  when  they  had 
freed  themselves  from  the  crowd  by  taking 
the  first  turning.  The  side-street  did  not 
lead  directly  toward  Ruth's  home,  but  that 
counted  for  nothing. 

The  glance  of  proprietorial  approval  cov- 
ered the  costume  that  helped  to  render  his 
betrothed  charming.  Her  tailor-made  gown 
and  jacket  were  of  some  magical  material 
that  was  a  cool  gray  in  the  shade  and  a  yet 
cooler  blue  in  the  sunshine  ;  her  white  sailor 
hat  was  banded  with  ribbon  of  the  same 
shades;  she  carried  in  a  gray -gloved  hand  a 
great  bunch  of  white  lilacs.  To  dispel  the 
trifling  confusion  caused  by  the  compliment, 
she  held  them  up  for  Robert  to  see  and  to 

smell. 

40 


"Wood,  Hay,  Stubble" 

"  If  you  want  to  see  something  really 
charming,  there  it  is !  Jenny  Htilst  gave 
them  to  me  just  now.  She  is  one  of  my  girls, 
you  know,  and  about  the  brightest  I  have. 
And  that  reminds  me,  Robert,  of  something 
I  thought  of  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

She  looked  away  from  him,  feigning  in- 
terest in  a  close-clipped  privet  hedge  on  her 
side  of  the  walk.  She  even  plucked  a  clus- 
ter of  the  white  blooms,  making  commas  of 
dainty  sniffs  at  them,  while  she  talked. 

"  You  see,  after  you  went  away,  I  got  to 
thinking  of  what  we  had  been  talking  about, 
and  I  couldn't  get  to  sleep  for  ever  so  long. 
The  ideas  you  had  given  me  were  so  new  and 
strange,  you  know — and  the  more  I  thought 
the  more — dreadful — they  were.  I  have 
been  trained  to  believe  every  single  word  in 
the  Bible.  One  of  the  first  texts  I  learned 
by  heart  was  "All  Scripture  is  given  by  in- 
spiration of  GOD."  I  recollected  that,  and 
"  Search  the  Scriptures,  for  in  them  ye  think 
ye  have  eternal  life,  and  these  are  they  that 

41 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

testify  of  me" — oh,  and  ever  so  many  more  of 
the  same  kind.  Wasn't  it  odd  that  I  couldn't 
think  of  one  of  them  while  you  were  talk- 
ing to  me,  although  I  tried  hard  ?  I  think, 
maybe,"  averting  her  face  still  more  and  get- 
ting over  the  words  in  a  nervous  flutter — • 
"  that  saying  my  prayers  had  something  to 
do  with  bringing  them  to  my  mind.  Any 
way,  while  I  was  tying  awake  and  trying  to 
make  it  all  plain  to  myself,  a  thought  came 
to  me  all  at  once,  as  distinctly  as  if  I  had 
read  it  on  the  wall  where  the  moonlight  was 
shining.  It  was  that  the  story  of  Jonah 
couldn't  be  a  fiction,  or  Our  Saviour  would 
not  have  referred  to  it.  And  the  people  of 
Nineveh  must  have  repented  at  the  preach- 
ing of  Jonah,  for  He  says  so  in  so  many 
words.  He  never  made  a  mistake.  It 
sounds  very  conceited  in  me  to  set  up  my 
opinion  against  yours  and  the  discoveries  of 
all  those  learned  scholars, — but  I  don't  think 
that  answer  was  of  my  making.  I  really  be- 
lieve that  it  was  sent  to  me." 
42 


"Wood,  Hay,  Stubble" 

The  tears  arose  so  near  to  the  fluttering 
voice  that  she  checked  it  for  an  instant,  then 
went  on  bravely  ; 

"It  was  like  a  message  from  heaven.  I 
thanked  GOD  for  it  and — I  couldn't  help 
crying  a  little — I  was  so  happy.  Then 
another  text  came  to  me ;  '  Great  peace 
have  they  that  love  Thy  law.'  I  never  un- 
derstood what  it  meant,  and  all  it  meant  un- 
til that  minute.  I  fell  asleep  repeating  it  to 
myself.  And  I  haven't  been  unhappy,  or 
worried,  since." 

The  corners  of  her  auditor's  mouth  had 
twitched  several  times  during  the  artless 
tale.  Her  perturbation  was  bewitching  in  it- 
self, and  the  color  suffusing  the  cheek  which 
was  all  she  let  him  see,  was  the  precise  shade 
of  an  oleander  blossom  with  a  sun-ray  shim- 
mering through  it.  What  appealed  to  his 
sense  of  humor  was  her  conviction  that  she 
had  introduced  the  topic  adroitly,  when  he 
saw,  from  the  instant  she  said — "  And  that 

reminds  me —  "  the  train  she  had  laid  for  his 
43 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

discomfiture.  And  how  mercifully  and 
modestly  she  had  dealt  with  him  and  other 
higher  critics  !  Transparent,  little,  bungling 
angel ! 

When  she  ventured  to  glance  around  to 
see  how  he  was  bearing  her  broadside,  she 
met  a  pair  of  fine  eyes  brimming  with  loving 
amusement.  The  same  was  in  his  accents, 
mixed  up  with  a  something  else  which  she 
was  too  unversed  in  the  workings  of  the 
theological  mind  to  recognize  as  the  mildly 
supercilious  patronage  the  man  of  GOD  feels 
for  the  amateur  who  trenches  upon  sacerdotal 
preserves. 

"  My  beloved — infant!"  He  tried  to  sum- 
mon another  epithet,  but  this  was  importu- 
nate. "  You  are  angelically  sweet  to  drop 
me  so  gently  when  your  knock-downer  might 
have  stunned  me  and  made  an  end  of  my 
poor  attempts  at  higher  criticism.  I  don't 
like  to  detract  from  the  comfort  you  got  out 
of  your  meditations  upon  your  bed  in  the 
night-watches.  I  am  sorry  that  you  had  a 

44 


"Wood,   Hay,   Stubble" 

hard  time  getting  to  sleep.  Jonah,  with  Nin- 
eveh to  boot,  wasn't  worth  it.  And  I  am 
glad  that  something  quieted  you  at  last.  If 
an  angel  brought  the  sleeping  draught,  I 
bless  him  for  it.  But,  my  darling,  I'm  afraid 
we  poor  students  and  critics  of  Holy  Writ 
can  hardly  accept  your  conclusion  of  the 
whole  matter.  Christ  alluded  to  Jonah  and 
the  whale  as  a  fable  with  which  the  common 
people  were  familiar,  lie  also  said — '  Ye 
cannot  serve  GOD  and  Mammon.'  Now, 
Mammon,  Milton  tells  us,  was 

"  ' The  least  erected  spirit  that  fell 

From   Heaven ;    for    even   in    Heaven   his  looks    and 

thoughts 

Were  always  downward  bent,  admiring  more 
The  riches  of  Heaven's  pavement — trodden  gold — 
Than  aught  divine  or  holy.' 

"In  point  of  fact,  Mammon  was  a  Syriac 
myth — the  god  of  covetousness.  As  such  he 
was  spoken  of  by  Christ,  and  the  people 
understood  what  He  meant  when  He  warned 
them  against  the  unrighteous  Mammon.  Dr. 

Van  Saun  used,  this  morning,  the  expression, 
45 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

4  The  labors  of  Hercules.'  Does  lie  — or  do 
we,  believe  that  such  a  hero  as  Hercules 
ever  lived?  much  less  that  he  performed  the 
labors  ascribed  to  him  ?  " 

Another  capital  hit !  an  impromptu  at 
that,  as  was  the  story  of  the  Sibyl's  Leaves. 
This  was  good  practice  in  polemic  theology, 
and  really  Ruth  must  not  be  allowed  to  talk 
nonsense.  The  idea  of  the  dear  girl's  form- 
ing theories  of  her  own  upon  a  subject  that 
was  taxing  the  astutest  intellects  of  the 
Church  and  the  age,  while  diverting  enough 
to  him,  might  prove  a  serious  mortification 
when  they  were  man  and  wife.  He  must 
gradually  and  gently  break  away  the  limita- 
tions of  education  and  tradition.  Mean- 
while, he  caught  himself  harking  back,  rel- 
ish  fully,  to  the  humorous  aspects  of  the  con- 
troversy. His  merriment  broke  bounds  in  a 
kindly  "Ha!  ha!"  with  the  effort  to  con- 
template the  mistress  of  his  heart  as  the  im- 
personation of  the  Dogma  of  the  Inerrancy 

of  Scripture. 

46 


"Wood,  Hay,  Stubble" 

The  hot  blood  scalded  Ruth's  cheeks,  hot 
tears  hurt  her  eyes. 

"Please  don't  make  fun  of  me!"  she 
begged  humbly,  the  crass  presumption  of  her 
argument  with  a  man  who  read  the  Bible  in 
a  dozen  or  so  languages  and  could  quote  five 
lines  out  of  hand  from  Paradise  Lost,  bowing 
her  spirit  to  the  dust,  "  I  am  very  ignorant — 
just  a  silly  girl  who  has  not  had  your  liberal 
education.  I  could  never  have  made  myself 
your  equal  if  I  had.  But  my  religion  is  so 
much  to  me,  Robert  dear !  and  I  got  it  all 
from  my  Bible !  I  get  frightened  to  death 
when  you  talk  so  coolly  about  mistakes  in 
GOD'S  Word.  There  seems  to  be  nothing 
good,  or  true,  or  safe,  left  in  time  or  in  Eter- 
nity. I'd  rather  lie  down  here  now  and  die 
— believing — than  live  a  thousand  years  dis- 
believing what  is  my  only  hope  of  salva- 
tion." 

The  glowing  face  and  wet  eyes  were 
buried  in  the  bouquet  of  lilacs;  her  compan- 
ion heard  the  sob  she  tried  to  smother,  lie 
47 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 


had  a  tender  heart,  and  all  of  it  that  was  not 
centred  in  himself  belonged  to  the  piteous 
pleader.  He  ceased  to  smile  and  hastened  to 
assure  her  in  serious,  affectionate  words  that 
he  would  not,  for  worlds,  unsettle  her  faith, 
even  if  he  were  not  in  full  sympathy  with 
her  in  this  matter.  He  reminded  her  that  he 
had  turned  his  back  upon  flattering  worldly 
prospects — even  a  partnership  in  the  Bergen 
&  Craig  Mills — and  chosen  a  life  of  toil  and 
self-denial  in  the  Master's  service. 

"  When  I  said  to  Him  and  to  myself — 
'  Woe  is  me  if  I  preach  not  the  Gospel ! '  I 
meant  it,  dear,  through  and  through.  That 
I  may  preach  this  Gospel  intelligently  and 
effectively,  I  seek  wisdom  by  the  light  of 
Reason  as  well  as  in  Revelation.  And  this  I 
can  say  in  deep  sincerity  ; — I  never  knew  how 
intensely  interesting  the  study  of  the  Bible 
could  be ;  I  never  guessed  what  lively  zeal 
and  intellectual  delight  one  could  bring  to 
the  work,  until  I  entered  the  Seminary.  I  pore 

over  the  sacred  pages  as  one  who  seeks  for 
48 


"Wood,  Hay,  Stubble" 

hid  treasure.  Every  word,  every  syllable, 
every  letter,  receives  careful  attention." 

"Isn't  that  because  you  are  on  the  look- 
out for  mistakes  ?"  queried  Ruth  innocently, 
and  her  lover  was  nearer  to  being  angry  with 
her  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 

He  wheeled  sharply  toward  her,  his  lips 
parting  in  a  retort,  but  her  utter  uncon- 
sciousness of  having  given  offence,  and  the 
dispirited  droop  of  eyes  and  lip  corners,  dis- 
armed him.  She  did  not  know  satire  by 
name  or  by  the  hearing  of  the  ear,  and  ill- 
nature  was  as  alien  to  her  disposition  as 
logic  to  her  mind. 

Ruth  pursued  her  idea  dreamily  and,  as 
guilelessly  as  before,  reversed  his  mood  : 

"  It's  like  looking  over  a  barrel  of  apples 
for  specked  ones.  Or,  a  basket  of  eggs  that 
were  laid  at  different  times." 

"  You  couldn't  have  hit  upon  a  better 
illustration  !  "  cried  Robert,  admiringly.  "  I 
shall  make  a  Higher  Critic  of  you  yet.  That 

figure  of  the  basket  of  eggs  just  suits  the 
4  49 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

case.  The  Bible  was  written  by  different 
men  of  different  nations  and  at  different 
periods  of  time.  All  were  men,  imperfect, 
and  liable  to  err  and  to  forget.  There  is  an 
Eastern  fable  that  tells  how  the  philosopher's 
stone,  which  changed  into  gold  whatever  it 
touched,  lay  with  a  heap  of  other  pebbles  on 
the  seashore.  A  gang  of  men  was  set  to 
work  to  identify  it.  Each  had  a  small  bar 
of  iron  with  which  he  was  told  to  test  every 
stone  as  he  picked  it  up,  and  if,  in  touching  it, 
did  not  turn  to  gold,  he  was  to  pitch  it  into 
the  water.  One  man  got  so  into  the  habit 
of  touching  the  pebble  and  then  tossing  it 
away,  that,  when  at  last,  the  iron  became 
gold,  he  threw  the  stone  into  the  sea  before 
he  saw  what  had  happened. 

"  The  Higher  Critic  holds  the  philosopher's 
stone  instead  of  the  bit  of  iron,  and  with  it 
he  tests  the  materials  that  go  to  make  up 
so  called  Revelation.  Luther  applied  this 
touchstone  when  he  said  : 

"'What  does  not  teach  Christ,  that  is  not 
50 


"Wood,  Hay,  Stubble" 

apostolic,  even  if  St.  Peter  or  St.  Paul 
taught  it.  Again,  what  preaches  Christ, 
that  would  be  apostolic,  even  if  Judas, 
Annas,  Pilate  and  Herod  did  it.' " 

He  had  the  quotation  pat,  having  written 
it  out  in  full  in  his  notebook  yesterday  from 
the  mouth  of  his  favorite  professor  in  the 
class-room.  Without  knowing  it,  he  de- 
livered it  with  the  professional  intonations 
and  gesture.  He  was  fairly  "in  the  stride" 
of  disputation  and  held  on  his  sway  dog- 
matically: 

"  Other  great  and  good  reformers  bring  to 
the  study  and  revision  of  the  Scriptures  still 
other  tests.  One  says,  for  example,  'What- 
ever I  find  in  the  Bible  that  agrees  with  the 
loftiest  ideal  my  mind  can  frame  of  humanity 
and  of  divinity,  I  accept  as  truth.'  An- 
other has  this  golden  epigram  :  '  What  in- 
spires me  is  inspired.'  ' 

"  I  don't  understand  how  he  can  say  that," 
said  commonplace  Ruth,  dubiously.  "  Dif- 
ferent people  have  different  ideals.  Even 
51 


Ruth  Btrgen's  Limitations 

good  men,  like  you  and  my  father,  don't 
always  feel  alike  and  wouldn't  be  satisfied 
with  the  same  thing.  I  couldn't  have  any 
faith  in  a  Bible  that  was  sifted  in  that  way. 
It's  like  the  difference  between  a  coal-screen 
and  a  flour-sifter." 

"  We  don't  use  coal-screens  in  bread- 
making,"  returned  Robert,  testily.  "  In 
other  words,  the  work  of  critical  separation 
of  true  from  spurious  Scripture  is  not  com- 
mitted to  uneducated  men.  The  highest 
order  of  scholarship  is  required  for  the  task." 

"  And  do  high  scholars  always  agree  as  to 
what  ought  to  be  left  in,  and  what  thrown 
out,  of  the  Bible?" 

The  tone  was  anxious ;  over  the  young 
face  the  worry  that  had  rested  there  last 
night  was  creeping.  She  looked  like  a  per- 
plexed child.  Yet,  all  unwittingly,  she  had 
struck  a  straight  blow.  The  nascent  critic 
winced  for  a  second  under  it.  A  vague  sus- 
picion beset  him  that  Ruth  might  not  be  as 

simple  as  she  seemed.     She  read  The  Chris- 
52 


"Wood,  Hay,  Stubble" 

tian  Intelligencer,  and  the  Higher  Criticism 
met  with  scant  favor  in  the  columns  of  that 
musty  organ  of  a  most  conservative  denomi- 
nation. The  names  of  Hengstenberg,  Shedd, 
Hodge  and  Greene  might  have  meaning  for, 
and  weight  with  her. 

"I  should  like  to  answer  that  question 
more  fully  than  I  have  time  for,  now,''  he 
rejoined,  as  they  reached  her  father's  gate. 
"I  shall  walk  home  with  yon  after  church 
this  afternoon  and  stay  to  tea  as  usual.  The 
rest  of  our  discussion  must  be  postponed 
until  then.  Good-bye,  sweet !  " 

He  set  off  down  the  street  at  a  swinging 
pace  and  Ruth  went  slowly  into  the  house 
and  laggingly  up  to  her  room.  There  she 
laid  aside  her  jacket  and  hat  with  listless 
hands,  locked  the  door  and  fell  upon  her 
knees  beside  the  bed,  hiding  her  face  in  the 
coverlet.  Presently,  she  put  out  a  blind 
hand  for  a  Bible  that  lay  on  the  stand  at  the 
bed-head,  and  drew  it  to  her  heart.  The 

movement  was  sudden  and  impassioned,  as  a 
53 


Ruth   Bergcn's   Limitations 

mother  might  catch  a  hurt  child  to  her 
bosom. 

She  carried  a  headache  to  the  early  dinner, 
and  a  face  so  wan  and  sober  that  her  mother 
refrained  from  chiding  her  want  of  punctu- 
ality. The  dish  before  her  father  was  fricas- 
seed chicken,  and  Garrett,  Jr.,  had  had  his 
second  help  before  his  sister  made  a  fourth 
at  the  round  table.  Her  father  had  saved 
half  of  the  breast  for  her.  Dumplings,  and 
cream  gravy,  rich  with  beaten  yolks  of  eggs, 
went  with  the  white  meat  laid  upon  Ruth's 
plate.  Mrs.  Bergen's  panacea  for  bodily 
and  mental  discomfort  was  tea.  She  had 
sent  the  teapot  to  the  kitchen  to  keep  it  hot 
for  her  daughter.  As  Ruth's  cup  was  filled, 
the  olive-colored  liquid  hissed  and  spat  in  the 
heated  spout. 

"  That  had  ought  to  brace  you  up,"  said 
the  mother,  cheerily.  "  We  all  feel  good-for- 
nothing  this  first  warm  spell.  Give  me  my 
tea  strong  and  hot  as  it  can  be  made,  says 

I,  and  let  them  that  like  it  weaker,  ease  it 
54 


"Wood,  Hay,  Stubble" 

down  with  plenty  of  cream.  It's  worth  all 
the  medicine  going." 

Eating  was  a  difficult  undertaking  to  Ruth, 
and  since  drinking  was  easier,  she  swallowed 
the  tea.  She  had  found  the  sun  rather  hot, 
coming  home,  she  confessed,  and  had  not 
thought  to  take  her  parasol.  When  the 
leaves  on  the  trees  were  fully  grown,  she  re- 
marked incidentally,  the  sidewalks  would  be 
better  shaded. 

As  soon  as  the  meal  was  finished,  the 
family  began  to  get  ready  for  Sunday  School. 
Mr.  Bergen,  as  an  active  Superintendent, 
had  the  habit  of  going  fifteen  minutes  earlier 
than  the  others — "to  get  things  started." 
He  was  putting  on  his  hat  in  the  hall  when 
Ruth  tripped  soundlessly  down  the  stairs  : 

"  Father  !  "  she  said,  avoiding  his  e}*es  and 
talking  fast — "  Would  you  mind  taking  my 
class  this  afternoon  ?  I  meant  to  go  until 
this  minute,  but  I  just  can't !  " 

Her  dimpled  chin  was  trembling,  her  voice 
fainted  abruptly. 

55 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 


Mr.  Bergen  was  reckoned  a  stern  man,  the 
sternness  of  an  upright  Christian  who  had 
not  learned  charity  by  his  own  stumblings. 
His  convictions  were  iron,  and  the  chalyb- 
eate property  permeated  his  moral  courage. 
Haziness  and  debility  of  belief  were  inex- 
cusable in  his  judgment.  "  Know  what  you 
believe;  then  live  up  to  it,"  would  have 
epitomized  his  everyday  creed.  The  core  of 
an  ironclad  heart  was  warm  and  soft,  and  his 
girl  was  enwrapped,  as  in  silken  down,  in  that 
heart-centre.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  and 
kissed  her  forehead. 

"  Poor  little  head ! "  he  said,  pityingly. 
"Is  it  behaving  so  badly?  It's  a  pretty 
nice  head  generally,  and  we  must  humor  it 
now  and  then." 

A  dry  sob  that  seemed  to  tear  her  throat 
in  passing,  answered  him.  Ruth  clung 
noiselessly  to  his  neck  for  a  moment,  then 
pushed  herself  from  him  with  a  laugh  as  dry 
as  the  sob. 

"  It's   good   in   you   to   think   so,  father. 

56 


"Wood,   Hay,  Stubble" 

But  it  is  a  weak,  empty,  worthless  head,  that 
any  sensible  woman  might  be  ashamed  to 
carry  upon  her  shoulders.  There  !  I  won't 
be  a  baby !  Thank  you  for  taking  the  class. 
The  girls  won't  be  troublesome,  I  know. 
Tell  them  that  there  isn't  much  the  matter 
with  me,  and  give  them  my  love." 

Seated  at  her  chamber- window,  she 
watched  with  dull  eyes,  that  yet,  without  her 
will,  saw  everything,  her  mother  take  her 
way  up  the  shady  street,  little  Garrett  at  her 
side.  Mrs.  Bergen  wore  a  black  silk  dress, 
thick,  and  not  lustrous.  Over  her  shoulders 
was  a  short  black  cloth  circular,  trimmed 
with  triangular  slashes.  The  slashes  were 
filled  with  jet  passementerie,  and  a  solid 
tassel  dangled  at  the  apex  of  each.  Her 
black  bonnet  was  adorned  with  a  bunch  of 
heliotropes  hedged  about  with  a  chevanx  de 
frise  of  black  lace.  She  never  "  went  quite 
into  colors,  don't  you  know?  Mr.  Bergen's 
family  connections,  as  well  as  hers,  being 

large,  and  life  that  uncertain."     She  held  her- 
57 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

self  ready  to  drop  into  mourning  at  an  hour's 
notice.  For  that  reason  she  never  bought 
shiny  silks.  Black  silk  was  a  half-way  house 
between  colors  and  crepe.  Heliotrope,  or 
any  shade  of  purple,  was  a  flag  station. 

Garrett,  Jr.,  had  on  his  first  pair  of  long 
trousers  that  Sunday.  To  his  obstreperous 
delight  he  had  been  emancipated  from  the 
ignominy  of  knickerbockers  on  Saturday 
night,  his  mother  acknowledging,  reluc- 
tantly, for  he  was  her  last  baby,  that  he  was 
"getting  leggy." 

When  they  were  out  of  sight,  Ruth  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  and  asked  herself  seriously 
and  coolly,  as  if  she  had  been  somebody  else, 
why  she  was  so  wretched.  What  had  hap- 
pened to  cloud  the  world  that  was  yesterday 
so  fair,  and  the  life  for  which  she  had  thanked 
her  Heavenly  Father  this  very  morning?  She 
recalled  how  a  sweet,  warm  mist  had  blurred 
her  reading  of  the  text  for  the  day  in  her 
'•''Daily  Strength  for  Daily  Needs." 

"  Fear  none  of  those  things  which  thou  shall 
58 


"Wood,  Hay,   Stubble" 

suffer.  Ye  shall  have  tribulation  ten  days.  Be 
thou  faithful  unto  death,  and  I  will  give  thee  a 
crown  of  life." 

The  talk  on  the  way  home  had  done  the 
harm.  But  why?  What  had  Robert  said 
except  that  good  and  wise  men  were  exam- 
ining the  Bible  critically,  and  leaving  out 
some  parts  as  less  likely  to  be  the  very  words 
of  GOD  than  others? 

"  That  was  all !  all ! "  she  said,  aloud,  in 
confidence  that  was  defiance.  "I  will  stop 
thinking  about  it !  " 

She  sat  up  to  look  out  of  the  window 
again.  A  row  of  locust-trees  shaded  the 
front  piazza.  The  branches  of  one  swept 
her  blinds  when  she  opened  and  closed  them, 
and  she  usually  left  them  open.  The  trees 
were  laden  with  rosy-and-white  flowers. 
But  for  the  cool  wind  the  perfume  would 
have  been  too  powerful  under  the  westering 
sun.  It  was  especially  delicious  in  the  dewy 
dawns  when  she  would  have  known,  with- 
out opening  her  eyes,  that  she  was  no- 
69 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

where  but  in  her  own  dear  room,  associ- 
ated with  the  flowery  Mays  of  twenty-two 
years.  Wherever  she  might  live  as  Robert 
Craig's  wife,  the  smell  of  locust-blooms 
would  always  remind  her  of  Briardale  and 
home. 

With  the  thought  of  Robert  and  their 
united  lives  the  odd  ache  compressed  heart 
and  throat.  He  was  so  strong  and  clever ; 
his  brain  was  so  steady  that  he  could  weigh 
evidence  without  getting  excited  when  such 
a  thing  as  the  truth  of  the  Bible  was  in- 
volved. He  could  read  manuscripts  in  the 
originals,  and  throw  aside  this  and  keep  that, 
yet  hold  fast  to  the  faith  once  delivered  to 
the  saints.  The  only  Bible  she  knew  was 
the  dear  old  Book  upon  which  were  founded 
the  Westminster  Catechism  and  the  Dort 
Confession  of  Faith.  Her  father  was  fond 
of  saying  that  the  Dort  Confession  contained 
five  thousand  words,  and  that  for  each  word 
a  martyr  had  died.  When  a  mere  baby  she 
had  learned  to  lisp, — 

60 


"  Wood,   Hay,  Stubble  " 

"Holy  Bible!  Book  divine, 
Precious  Gospel !  thou  art  mine," 

and  known  that  Christian  men  and  women 
had  laid  down  their  lives  sooner  than  give  it 
up. 

Her  mother  had  been  brought  up  a  Pres- 
byterian and  her  children  had  learned  the 
Westminster  Catechism  when  young,  later, 
the  Heidelberg.  She  repeated,  musingly, 
the  second  question  and  answer  of  the 
Shorter  Catechism : 

"  What  rule  hath  GOD  given  to  direct  us 
how  we  may  glorify  and  enjoy  Him  ? 

"The  Word  of  GOD  which  is  contained  in 
the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ments is  the  only  rule  given  to  direct  us 
how  we  may  glorify  and  enjoy  Him." 

In  the  strength  of  the  recollection  she  got 
her  Bible  and  Concordance  and  looked  up  and 
wrote  down  twenty  texts  in  defence  of  this 
"only  rule."  At  the  top  of  the  list  stood, — 

"  The  grass  withereth,  the  flower  fadeth,  but 

the  word  of  our  God  shall  stand  forever" 
61 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

At  the  bottom  were  the  words  to  which 
she  had  referred  in  last  night's  talk, — 

"  And  if  any  man  shall  take  away  from  the 
words  of  the  Book  of  this  ]>r«i>liefy,  God  shall 
take  away  his  part  out  of  tin1,  Hook  of  Life,  and 
out  of  the  Holy  City,  and  from  the  things  ichil-h 
are  written  in  this  Book." 

The  blood  slackened  in  her  veins  as  she 
penned  the  awful  sentence.  When  it  was 
written  she  sat  looking  at  it  a  long  time 
without  moving. 

"  I  should  think  they  would  be  afraid  to 
do  it ! "  she  whispered  to  herself.  "  And 
St.  John,  the  beloved  disciple,  said  it.  He 
could  not  have  had  the  heart  to  put  it 
there,  if  the  Spirit  had  not  said  unto  him — 
4  Write  ! '  I  should  be  afraid  of  the  judg- 
ment of  heaven  if  I  were  in  their  places." 

The  swift  thought  that  followed  drove 
her  again  to  her  knees.  Prayer  was  the 
only  resort  of  the  simple,  narrow-minded 
creature  in  the  horror  that  wrapped  her  in 
as  with  a  pall.  Talk  of  the  inerrancy  of 

62 


"Wood,  Hay,  Stubble" 

Scripture  conveyed  to  her  intellect  us  little 
as  the  accusation  of  Bibliolatry.  That  GOD'S 
Word  should  be  fallible  periled  her  hope  of 
immortality  for  her  own  soul  and  souls  dearer 
to  her  than  her  own.  To  tamper  with  the 
Holy  Oracle  was  sacrilege.  This,  Robert 
averred,  was  an  exquisite  pleasure  to  him. 

If  she  prayed  that  her  own  faith  might  be 
established,  it  was  as  a  means  to  an  end. 

"O,  my  Father!"  she  broke  forth  with 
strong  crying  and  tears — "  Help  me,  even 
me,  to  keep  back  Thy  servant  from  pre- 
sumptuous sins!  Let  them  not  have  domin- 
ion over  him  ! " 

Soul  and  mind  were  so  saturated  with 
Scripture  that  heart-break  found  no  other 
language. 


63 


in 

LOCUST-BLOOMS   AND   HIGHER   CRITICISM 

MRS.  DE  BAUN,  the  Bergens'  eldest  daugh- 
ter, lived  in  Briar  dale,  and  with  her  husband 
took  tea  at  "Father's"  every  Sunday  night, 
the  year  around.  She  was  a  buxom,  chatty 
matron  beside  whom  Ruth  always  appeared 
small  and  quiet.  If  the  younger  sister 
talked  less  than  usual  on  this  particular 
evening,  nobody  noticed  it.  Robert  Craig 
was  in  fine  feather  colloquially,  and  there 
were  no  gaps  in  the  seams  of  talk  with  him 
on  one  side  of  the  table,  the  de  Bauns  on 
the  other  and  Mr.  Bergen  ready  to  take  his 
part  from  the  foot  of  the  well-furnished 
board. 

"  That  boy  grows  nicer  every  day  of  his 
life,"  declared  the  prospective  sister-in-law 

when,  the  young  people  having  gone  out  to- 
64 


Locust-blooms  and   Higher  Criticism 

gether  upon  the  piazza  upon  no  pretext  what- 
ever, she  settled  herself  down  for  a  comfort- 
able gossip  with  her  mother. 

Her  father  and  husband  had  their  pipes, 
and  each  an  open  window  to  himself.  The 
shaded  lamp  burned  without  smoke  or  smell 
upon  a  stand  in  a  corner,  letting  the  moon- 
beams stray  far  enough  into  the  room  to 
show  the  smoke-rings  like  silver  boats  as 
they  sailed  through  the  windows.  Mrs. 
Bergen  was  in  her  own  easy-chair.  Her 
mother  had  "  taken  her  comfort "  in  it  on 
Sunday  evenings  fifty-odd  years  ago,  and  re- 
counted as  peacefully  to  herself  and  to 
others  the  blessings  she  had  not  time  on 
week-days  to  set  in  order  before  them.  The 
chair  was  to  go  to  Ruth  in  the  course  of 
time  and  nature.  The  newest  of  its  many 
re-coverings  was  tacked  on  by  Ruth's  own 
hands  the  Saturday  before  Easter.  It  was 
cretonne, — a  gray  ground  with  bunches  of 
trailing  arbutus  dropped  upon  it  at  regular 

intervals.     Mrs.  Bergen  considered  it  "  tasty, 
5  65 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

but  quiet.  That  was  like  Ruth,  you  know. 
She  was  never  one  for  show." 

Mrs.  de  Baun  (she  had  ideas  of  style  and 
was  pertinacious  of  the  small  c?,)  swung 
gently  in  a  Boston  rocker.  The  cushions  of 
seat  and  back  were  covered  with  the  same 
gray  cretonne,  and  the  legs  were  hidden  by 
a  full  valance  that  sucked  in  and  swelled  out 
with  the  motion  of  the  chair.  The  leisurely 
undulations  added  to  the  sedative  influences 
of  the  hour.  The  group  was  a  fair  specimen 
of  our  best  middle  class  church-going  folk, 
—the  backbone  and  sinew  of  every  law-abid- 
ing American  community. 

"  Yes ! "  assented  the  mother,  in  the 
throaty  cluck  that  belongs  to  matrons  of  her 
years  and  caste.  "  I  feel  to  be  very  thank- 
ful that  Ruth  has  made  such  a  wise  choice. 
Robert  is  a  good  boy,  through  and  through. 
His  mother  was  saying  only  yesterday  that 
he  had  never  given  his  parents  one  minute's 
uneasiness.  And  I  hear  that  he  is  consid- 
ered real  talented  by  the  Seminary  profess- 
G6 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

ors  and  other  people  who  are  judges  of  such 
things." 

The  young  people  passed  the  window  upon 
the  end  piazza,  Robert  walking  next  to  the 
house,  Ruth's  white  gown  ghostly  in  the  moon- 
light. The  four  spectators  turned  their  heads 
to  look  after  them.  The  men  made  no  com- 
ment; the  women  exchanged  moved  smiles. 

"He'll  get  a  good  wife,  and  a  pretty  one," 
said  the  sister.  "She  never  had  anything 
more  becoming  than  that  dress.  And  to 
think  of  her  making  it  out-and-out!  It's 
easy  to  see  that  he's  prouder  of  it  than  she 
is.  He  couldn't  keep  his  eyes  off  of  her  all 
supper  time." 

Mr.  Bergen  refilled  his  pipe  and  rammed 
down  the  charge  with  his  little  finger. 

"  I  put  Robert  up  to  conduct  the  closing 
exercises  this  afternoon,"  he  observed,  cas- 
ually, to  his  son-in-law.  "  I  had  to  teach 
Ruth's  class,  and  I  thought  he  might's  well 
lend  me  a  hand  and  get  his  hand  in  a  bit. 
He  gave  the  school  a  first-class  talk,  too, 

67 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

short  and  right  to  the  point.  He  took  for 
his  text — "  The  men  of  Nineveh  shall  rise  up 
in  judgment"  and  so  forth.  Some  of  us 
older  folks  might  profit  by  what  he  said 
about  the  responsibilities  and  advantages  of 
those  who  are  born  and  brought  up  in  a 
Christian  land." 

Robert  was  telling  Ruth  of  his  address 
while  they  strolled  up  and  down  the  porch 
that  ran  along  the  front  and  one  end  of  the 
house.  The  rhythm  of  their  footsteps  and 
the  murmur  of  the  young  voices  underran 
the  sitting-room  chat  like  a  piano  accompani- 
ment, throbbing  more  and  more  faintly  as 
they  turned  the  farther  corner  on  each  round. 

The  girl's  fingers  closed  tightly  upon  her 
lover's  arm  when  he  mentioned  her  father's 
request  and  his  compliance. 

"  Oh-h !  I  hope  you  didn't  say  anything 
about " 

"  Jack-and-the -bean -stalk !"  Robert  fin- 
ished the  exclamation,  as  she  broke  it  short. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  dear !     Setting  aside   the 
68 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

circumstance  that  your  father  is  a  pillar  of 
orthodoxy,  and  would  be  ready  to  burn  me 
at  the  stake  for  heresy  if  I  were  to  ventilate 
my  views  of  the  historical  accuracy  and 
verbal  inspiration  of  the  Scriptures — I  do 
not  consider  that  the  rank  and  fde  of  church 
members  are  prepared  for  the  truths  brought 
to  light  by  Higher  Criticism.  The  elders  of 
this  generation  are  joined  to  their  Bibliolatry 
and  have  to  be  let  alone.  Light  must  be  ad- 
mitted cautiously  into  superstitious  souls." 

"  What  could  you  say  about  the  lesson  if 
you  didn't  believe  that  Jonah  ever  preached 
in  Nineveh  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  obliged  to  say  that  he  did  not. 
I  let  the  parable,  or  fiction,  speak  for  itself 
and  turned  my  hearers'  attention  to  what 
would  be  expected  of  church-goers  and  Sun- 
day School  children  in  this  day  and  country." 

He  proceeded  to  treat  her  to  an  abstract 
of  his  remarks,  citing  a  couple  of  felicitous 
illustrations,  warmed  to  the  work  by  her  ap- 
parent attention.  His  complacency  was 

69 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

dashed  by  an  interruption  of  his  best  pas- 
sage ; 

"  But,  Robert,  you  can't  always  do  that. 
You  can't  go  on  dodging  the  truth  forever. 
There  must  come  a  time  when  you  will  have 
to  be  sincere." 

She  felt  him  bridle  and  stiffen ;  his  tone 
was  two-edged. 

"  Dodging  the  subject !  Will  have  to  be 
sincere  !  Really  Ruth,  your  terms  are,  to 
say  the  least,  extraordinary." 

He  had  not  hurt  her.  She  was  not  even 
apologetic,  although  breathlessly  earnest. 

"  When  you  are  a  preacher  you  must 
preach  what  you  really  think.  You  must 
not  shun  to  declare  the  whole  counsel  of 
GOD,  don't  you  know  ?  You  cannot  keep 
your  people  always  in  the  dark.  They  will 
find  out  some  time  what  your  real  senti- 
ments are." 

The  frost  of  his  silence  penetrated  her  pre- 
occupied mood.  She  tried  to  decipher  the 

expression  of  his  face  through  the  shadows. 
70 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

"  You  aren't  offended  with  me,  are  you 
dear?  You  can't  think  how  all  this  shocks 
me.  I  couldn't  help  feeling  when  you  spoke 
of  keeping  the  rank  and  file  in  ignorance  of 
what  you  believe  are  the  true  Scriptures, 
how  much  it  sounded  like  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic priests'  talk  of  the  danger  of  private  in- 
terpretation and  the  open  Bible. 

"Don't  make  fun  of  me  !  "  at  his  ejacula- 
tion of  mingled  amusement  and  impatience. 
"  Let  me  say  my  poor  little  say  in  my  poor, 
feeble  way — please  !  I  don't  know  any  other. 
I  was  very,  very  unhappy  when  I  got  home 
to-day.  Just  as  I  was,  last  night.  I  can't 
make  even  you  understand  how  unhappy. 
And  because  I  have  so  often  found  grace 
and  help  in  other  times  of  need  in  my  Bible, 
I  searched  the  Scriptures  for  myself  to  know 
if  these  things  were  true.  What  I  found 
there  did  bring  me  light  and  comfort — some- 
what. And  then  I  prayed  " — hesitatingly, 
curbed  by  the  reserve  common  to  her  class 
where  "  spiritual  exercises  "  are  the  theme  of 

71 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

everyday  conversation.  "  That  helped  me 
more.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  you  to 
talk  to  me  freely  about  these  doubts  and  dif- 
ficulties. I  hope  I  am  strong  enough  now, 
after — this  afternoon — to  listen  and  to  judge 
for  myself.  Make  it  all  as  plain  as  you  can 
for  me.  I  am  not  learned,  you  know,  but 
wisdom  and  strength  will  be  given  to  me.  I 
have  asked  for  them,  for  myself — "  a  timid 
pause, — "and  for  you,  dear." 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  fondly, 
not  without  a  touch  of  reverence  for  the  pur- 
ity of  her  faith  and  the  earnestness  of  her  love. 

"  GOD  bless  you  for  the  truest,  sweetest, 
dearest  woman  who  ever  gave  her  whole 
heart  to  a  fellow  not  half-worthy  of  her !  I 
have  no  terrible  revelations  to  make,  darling, 
as  you  will  see,  presently.  And  you  are 
right  in  thinking  that  our  views  on  this  and 
all  other  important  matters  should  har- 
monize. A  man's  wife  should  be  one  lobe 
of  his  brain  as  well  as  his  second  soul.  Let 

me  think  where  to  begin  with  you." 
72 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 


While  he  adjusted  his  theological  con- 
sidering-cap,  Mr.  Bergen's  tones,  like  the 
drone  of  a  Brobdingnagian  hawk's -head 
moth,  boomed  through  his  window : 

"No,  sir!  I've  no  charity  for  a  Mugwump! 
I'd  rather  be  an  honest  Democrat  and  be 
done  with  it.  This  hunting  with  the  hounds 
and  running  with  the  hare  is  contrary  to 
honor  and  to  honesty.  You  can't  ride  two 
horses  at  once.  The  servant  of  two  masters 
is  always  a  sneak  and  a  failure.  If  I  ever 
leave  the  Republican  party  I'll  go  clean  over 
the  fence,  not  sit,  balancing  myself  on  the 
top-rail." 

Ruth  heard  him  with  the  outer  ears.  Her 
mind  made  no  application  of  the  energetic 
sentences.  She  was  busy  training  her  bat- 
tery of  proof-texts  upon  the  advancing  foe. 
Every  verse  was  committed  to  memory.  She 
would  keep  a  steady  head  and  call  each  up 
at  need,  going  down  upon  the  knees  of  her 
heart  to  pray  for  light  and  courage. 

"  It  shall  be  given  you  in  that  hour  what  you 
73 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

shall  speak"  was  in  her  thought  as  Robert 
began  a  discourse  that  lasted  forty-five  min- 
utes. 

Mrs.  de  Baun  laughingly  timed  him  by  the 
sitting-room  clock,  having  caught  a  few  words 
of  the  introduction. 

"  I  guess  Robert  is  trying  his  first  sermon 
upon  Ruthie,"  she  opined.  "  I  heard  him 
say — '  All  Scripture  is  given  by  inspiration 
of  GOD.'  " 

"  That's  a  safe  beginning,"  quoth  her 
father.  "Sound  as  a  nut.  There's  no  dis- 
count on  that  theology." 

What  Robert  really  said  was : 

"  The  assertion  that  'all  Scripture  is  given 
by  inspiration  of  GOD  '  may  be  the  narrow- 
est of  dogmas,  or  broad  enough  to  suit  the 
most  liberal  Higher  Critic." 

"  What  is  a  Higher  Critic  ?  "  interposed 
Ruth.  "And  how  did  they  get  that  name?  " 

As  I  have  said,  it  took  Robert  three-quar- 
ters of  an  hour  to  answer  the  question.  At 

the  end  of  the  first  fifteen  minutes  they  sat 
74 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

down  upon  the  upper  step  of  the  front  piazza. 
A  bland  little  wind  was  shaking  the  locust- 
blooms,  and  sent  smiling  ripples  of  moonlight 
between  the  clusters,  over  the  lovers.  Ruth's 
hands  were  folded  upon  her  lap,  and  if  Rob- 
ert laid  one  of  his,  occasionally,  upon  them, 
or  touched  her  knee,  it  was  in  rhetorical 
fervor,  not  in  such  dalliance  as  would  have 
befitted  the  summer  night. 

The  speaker  bore  in  mind  from  the  outset 
the  pathetic  request  that  he  would  "  make  it 
all  as  plain  as  he  could."  He  simplified  his 
language  to  the  best  of  his  ability  in  relating 
the  various  methods  by  which  the  Higher 
Criticism  works  upon  the  alleged  sacred 
writings  and  the  conclusions  to  which  it  had 
been  forced  or  led.  Ruth,  albeit  listening  as 
for  her  life,  did  notgrasp  more  than  one-half  of 
his  meaning.  Theological  technique  was  as 
so  much  Greek  to  her  understanding  and  he 
could  not  quite  avoid  the  phraseology  of  the 
class-room.  She  did  gather  and  was  in  no 
danger  of  forgetting,  that  what  she  had  been 

75 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

taught  to  call,  "  The  Mosaic  account  of  the 
Creation,"  is  decided  unanimously  by  schol- 
arly critics  to  be  an  allegory,  or  a  religious 
myth,  and  was  not  written  by  Moses,  or  in 
his  times.  That  it  is  more  than  likely  that 
Moses  was  not  the  author  of  any  of  the  books 
generally  attributed  to  him.  That  "the 
legislation  ritual  is  of  post  exilian  origin," 
and  set  about  with  spurious  "  historical  "  in- 
cidents to  give  it  weight  and  interest.  That 
the  books  of  Ruth  and  Esther  are  pretty 
romances,  or  at  the  best,  historical  novels. 
That  the  solitary  authentic  scrap  of  David's 
composition  which  has  come  down  to  us  is 
the  lament  over  Saul  and  Jonathan,  and  that 
experts  find  in  this  fragment  conclusive  proof 
that  he  wrote  none  of  the  Psalms.  These,  it 
is  thought  by  some,  were  composed,  for  the 
most  part,  for  the  service  of  the  Second  Tem- 
ple, long  after  David  slept  with  his  fathers. 
Others  affirm  that  the  oldest  of  them  was 
written  less  than  two  hundred  years  before 

Christ,  and  by  many  different  hands — "pious 
76 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 


peasants  scattered  up  and  down  throughout 
Galilee  who  waited  for  the  Consolation  ol! 
Israel— the  class  from  which  Joseph  and 
Mary  were  to  spring." 

She  learned  that  the  handiwork  of  at  least 
eleven  authors  is  distinctly  evident  in  the 
alleged  Prophecy  of  Isaiah,  and  that  Daniel 
never  saw  or  heard  of  the  book  which  bears 
his  name.  That  Ezra  did  not  write  the 
Chronicles,  or  Nehemiah,  or  even  the  Book 
of  Ezra.  That,  while  Solomon  may  have 
compiled  some  of  the  Proverbs  set  down 
under  his  name,  he  assuredly  had  no  part  or 
lot  in  The  Song  of  Songs,  or  in  Ecclesiastes. 

Skipping  the  minor  prophets  as  scarcely 
worthy  of  costly  ammunition,  our  callow 
censor  fell  valiantly  upon  the  Gospels.  Mat- 
thew he  patronized  as  a  well-meaning  but 
credulous  tax-gatherer  who  is  identified  with 
Levi,  and  who  collated  from  a  variety  of 
sources  a  mass  of  material,  all  interesting 
and  some  of  it  valuable.  It  is  especially 
valuable  as  preserving  the  Jewish  atmos- 

77 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

phere  witliout  the  Jewish  narrowness.  Mark, 
according  to  Robert,  is  more  nearly  authentic 
and  is  regarded  by  the  best  critics  as  the 
safest  of  apostolic  authorities.  Luke's  evi- 
dence he  discounted  emphatically  as  second- 
hand and  traditional.  He  does  not  pretend 
to  have  been  an  eyewitness  of  Our  Lord's 
works  or  even  to  have  been  His  contempo- 
rary. The  Roman  Catholic  story  that  he  got 
his  information  from  Mary  the  Mother  of 
Christ  is  as  trustworthy  as  any  other,  and 
this  is  legendary. 

Our  half-baked  Higher  Critic  cast  what  he 
called  "the  Fourth  Gospel  "into  the  outer 
darkness  of  apocrypha.  As  airily  he  rele- 
gated The  Acts  to  the  hazy  debatable  ground 
occupied  by  "  the  former  treatise  "  addressed 
to  "the  most  excellent  Theophilus."  Ac- 
cording to  the  youthful  enthusiast  in  latter- 
day  discoveries,  the  Christian  world  should 
move  more  easily  and  draw  deeper  spiritual 
breath  now  that  apostolic  testimony  is  sifted 

and  sorted,  the  little  heap  of  golden  grain 
78 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

garnered  and  the  chaff  consigned  to  its  own 
place. 

"  The  Gospels  and  The  Acts  are  full  of 
contradictions  and  palpable  blunders  that 
have  caused  the  enemies  of  Revelation  to 
blaspheme  with  much  show  of  reason.  Rob- 
inson and  other  pious  moles  and  mules  may 
*  harmonize '  violently  to  the  end  of  time. 
They  deceive  nobody  who  studies  without 
prejudice  and  uses  common  sense  in  judging 
of  what  he  has  read." 

The  Epistles  were  handled  with  a  shade 
more  of  respect.  The  budding  divine  had  a 
profound  regard — the  regard  of  one  true  man 
for  another — for  Paul.  Him,  he  pronounced 
in  a  tone  of  hearty  good-fellowship  to  be  "  a 
gentleman  and  a  scholar,"  the  probable 
author  of  one  of  the  Epistles  to  Timothy, 
and  possibly  two  more  of  those  to  which  the 
Church  has  appended  his  name.  Of  course, 
no  intelligent  nineteenth-century  reader  be- 
lieves that  he  had  any  hand  in  the  Epistle 

to  the  Hebrews. 

79 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

"  The  Apocalypse  reads  like  a  hasheesh- 
eater's  dream  " — said  Deacon  Craig's  son, 
pulling  at  his  strait  breasted  waistcoat,  and 
filliping  a  fallen  locust-petal  from  the  knee  of 
his  gray  trousers.  "  It  is  an  hysterical  olla 
podrida  of  green  rainbows  and  vari-colored 
horses,  and  men  with  tongues  like  drawn 
swords  protruding  from  their  mouths,  and 
gates  of  pearl,  and  fiery  seas  of  molten  glass, 
and  scarlet  women — that  has  driven  scores  of 
would-be  interpreters  crazy.  Those  who 
have  any  regard  for  the  dignity  of  Holy 
Writ  are  thankful  not  to  be  obliged  to  admit 
it  to  the  Canon." 

The  side  issue  of  Inspiration  now  received 
our  fledgeling's  attention.  He  tore  the 
dogma  of  Verbal  Inspiration  from  top  to 
bottom,  and  then  across,  with  two  spasms  of 
indignant  erudition.  As  to  General  Inspira- 
tion— the  informing  of  the  body  of  the  Bible 
(or  so  much  of  it  as  remains  when  screening 
and  sifting  and  fanning  are  over)  with  the 
breath  of  Deity,  he  owned  to  a  generous  be- 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

lief  in  it.  He  believed,  also,  that  the  same 
sort  of  inspiration  is  going  on  in  the  world 
to-day.  The  twenty-third  Psalm  was  in- 
spired. So  was  Longfellow's  Psalm  of  Life. 
John  the  Baptist — whose  neophyte  and  as- 
sistant, the  Galilean  Carpenter,  became 
greater  than  His  master — was  inspired  to 
preach,  and  to  make  straight  the  path  for  the 
Messiah.  John  Bunyan  was  moved  by  the 
self-same  Spirit  to  write  The  Pilgrim  $  Prog- 
ress. 

"All  that  man  requires  in  order  to  receive 
this  Divine  breath  is  a  pure  heart  and  a 
reverent,  receptive  mind  ;  "  thus  flowed  the 
discourse.  "  Now,  as  in  the  days  of  Jesus 
of  Nazareth,  the  commandment  with  promise 
is — '•He  that  hath  ears  to  hear,  let  him 
hear.' " 

"  Can  you  hold  up  long  enough  to  let 
Ruth  say,  '  Good  night '  to  us  ?  "  cried  Mrs. 
de  Baun  jocosely  through  the  sitting-room 
window. 

Robert  laughed  and  jumped  up. 
6  81 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

"  This  is  too  bad  !  I  don't  mean  to  preach 
such  tedious  sermons  after  I  am  licensed," 
he  called  back.  "  It  isn't  often  that  a  man 
has  such  a  patient  and  appreciative  audience. 
It  is  an  inspiration  in  itself." 

Ruth  did  not  offer  to  rise  as  lie  took  her 
hand  to  lift  her  to  her  feet. 

"  We'll  be  in  directly,  Anneke,"  she  an- 
swered her  sister.  "By  the  time  you  can 
get  your  bonnet  on.  Robert !  "  in  a  queer, 
choked  voice  as  if  her  throat  and  tongue 
were  dusty, — "  I  want  to  ask  one  question. 
The  scholars  of  this  day  are  ever  and  ever 
so  much  wiser  than  those  who  made  King 
James's  Bible.  Have  they  found  all  the  mis- 
takes in  it?  Suppose,  in  another  hundred 
years,  or  maybe  in  fifty  years,  another  set  of 
men  should  decide  that  the  little  of  the 
Bible  you  have  left  us,  is  no  more  inspired 
than  Jonah  and  St.  John's  Gospel  and  Rev- 
elation? When  they  have  taken  away  all 
of  the  only  rule  GOD  has  given  to  direct  us 

how  we  may  glorify  and  enjoy  Him — what; 

82 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

will  become  of  people's  souls  ?  Where  is 
this  to  stop  ?  " 

Robert's  laugh  was  easy  and  affectionate  : 

"  In  the  first  place,  my  dear  girl,  you  sup- 
pose an  impossibility.  In  the  second  place, 
if  we  were  compelled  to  confess  that  the 
main  body  of  the  so-called  Canon  is  the 
work  of  man  and  not  of  GOD,  the  truth  of 
what  these  good  men  have  told  us  in  these 
Books  would  remain  unmoved.  Further- 
more, we  have  always  the  light  of  reason — 
meaning  conscience  and  the  religious  feel- 
ing," 

"  Where  is  the  religious  feeling  to  come 
from  when  you  take  away  the  Bible  ?  " 

"  Where  did  Enoch,  who  lived  before  a 
word  of  the  Scriptures  was  written,  get  the 
testimony  that  he  pleased  GOD?  You  are 
the  caviller  now,  my  pet,  not  I.  We  will 
talk  this  out  some  other  time.  Now  we 
must  go  in.  Why,  darling  !  your  hands  are 
like  snowflakes !  " 

He  pressed  them  to  his  warm  lips  and  put 
83 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

his   arm    about    her.      She    was    shivering 
violently. 

"  What  a  careless,  stupid  brute  I  am  to 
keep  you  out  all  this  time  in  tl^e  dew !  " 
he  was  berating  himself  when  they  appeared 
in  the  sitting-room  where  the  lamp  revealed 
a  bloodless  face  and  lips  that  were  blue. 
Ruth  tried  to  smile  and  speak,  and  her  teeth 
chattered  uncontrollably.  Her  limbs  were 
numb  and  strangely  weak.  Mrs.  Bergen, 
seriously  uneasy,  hurried  the  visitors  away 
and  Ruth  up  to  her  bed.  There  she  put  a 
rubber  bag  of  hot  water  to  the  girl's  feet, 
and  administered  a  cup  of  scalding  tea.  She 
was  a  mild  natured  and  mild-mannered  wo- 
man, and  forebore  to  blame  the  young  man, 
or  to  scold  Ruth,  although,  as  she  reported 
to  her  husband,  "  you  might  have  swept  the 
dew  off  of  Ruth's  skirt  by  the  handful,  and 
it  would  have  been  soaked  through  if  it  had 
been  cotton  goods."  If  the  child  had  caught 
a  chill  the  mother  was  as  much  to  be 

"faulted"  as  anybody  else. 
84 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

Ruth  faintly  laid  all  her  discomfort  at  the 
door  of  "one  of  her  bad  headaches,"  thanked 
her  mother,  gratefully,  but  still  faintly,  for 
her  kindness  and  promised  to  try  to  sleep. 
In  her  heart  she  was  yet  more  grateful  to  the 
good  woman  for  asking  no  questions  and  go- 
ing quietly  downstairs  after  extinguishing 
the  lamp. 

The  moonbeams  flowed  in,  white  and 
solemn,  with  the  going  out  of  the  grosser 
light,  and  the  smell  of  the  locust-blooms 
kept  it  company.  The  girl  lay  as  one  dead, 
her  hands  clasped  upon  her  heart,  and  wished 
miserably  that  she  had  perished  in  the  mo- 
ment of  her  birth.  Beaten  down  in  nerve, 
sick  in  body  and  in  spirit,  she  could  not  con- 
trol imagination.  It  ran  riot  in  fancies  the 
like  of  which  had  never  tormented  her  be- 
fore. Her  pitiful  barrier  of  proof-texts  had 
been  swept  out  to  sea  like  so  many  splinters 
before  the  tide  of  facts  that  were  arguments  ; 
faith  and  hope  were  in  the  grasp  of  the  un- 
dertow. Every  blow  at  the  Book  which  was 

85 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

the  bulwark  of  her  forefathers'  Religion  and 
hers,  had  seemed  to  hack  away  a  bit  of  her 
heart. 

Says  one  whose  compassion  for  the  suffer- 
ers she  describes  has  in  it  no  admixture  of 
sympathy  in  their  beliefs — "  They,  too,  had 
their  Calvary — these  determined  souls  who 
doggedly  died  by  the  cross  of  the  Old  Faith 
in  whose  shelter  their  fathers  and  their 
fathers'  fathers  had  lived  and  prayed,  had 
battled  and  triumphed." 

I  despair  of  winning  an  intelligent  pity 
for  my  little  Ruth  from  such  as  have,  from 
infancy,  heard  the  "  Scriptures  of  the  Old 
and  the  New  Testaments  "  spoken  of  as  falli- 
ble classics.  The  dogma — for  the  dogmas  of 
Doubt  are  as  numerous  and  as  imperious  as 
those  of  "  the  old  Faith  "—that  "  the  great 
patriarchal  tales  of  the  Old  Testament  are 
no  more  literally  true  than  the  tales  of 
Achilles,  of  ^Eneas  and  of  King  Arthur — 
ancient  Sagas  about  national  heroes — partly 

mythical,  partly  legendary,  with  a  few  his- 
86 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

torical  kernels  embedded  in  them," — hud 
never  been  so  much  as  whispered  in  Ruth 
Bergen's  world, — much  less  doubts  of  the 
authenticity  of  any  portion  of  the  New 
Testament.  She  had  received  the  kingdom 
of  Heaven  and  all  pertaining  thereunto  as  a 
little  child.  Had  her  erudite  lover  brought 
to  her  on  that  fragrant  May  evening  the 
news  that  she  was  not  the  child  of  her  re- 
puted parents,  but  base-born,  having  no 
claims  upon  their  hearts  and  no  place  in 
their  home,  her  sense  of  bereavement  could 
not  have  been  keener. 

One  text  was  tossed  up  to  her  lips  again 
and  again  by  the  salt  waves  : 

"  If  the  foundations  be  destroyed  what  can  the 
righteous  do  ?  " 

"I  am  not  righteous,  O  Lord,  Thou  know- 
est — but  the  foundations  are  taken  from 
under  me.  What  can  I  do?  what  can  I 
build  upon  ?  "  she  sobbed  to  the  brooding 
night  in  ever-growing  desolatian. 

The   thought   that   the    sibyl   of     Higher 

87 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

Criticism  had  left  so  many  precious  leaves, 
and  that,  as  Robert  proudly  asserted,  the 
very  cream  of  Revelation  was  now  served  in 
faultless  vessels  to  the  Church  and  to  Hu- 
manity, was  no  consolation  to  her.  A  for- 
midable feminine  limitation  is  the  unconquer- 
able propensity  to  force  a  conclusion.  She 
was  sure  that  what  had  been  begun  would 
be  completed.  Pick  and  crowbar  were  busy 
with  the  walls  of  the  goodly  edifice.  Utter 
demolition  was  merely  a  question  of  time. 
She  was  possessed  by  the  stubborn  assurance 
that,  as  certainly  as  a  generation  more 
learned  than  those  which  had  preceded  it, 
was  screening  and  panning  and  assaying 
Biblical  ore,  there  would  arise  in  days  to 
come,  yet  others  who  would  improve  upon 
their  work  until  nothing  was  left  of  the 
Scriptures. 

"  Not  so  much  as  the  title  !  "  she  said,  bit- 
terly.    " '  HOLY    BIBLE  '    has    no    business 
there."     She  was  crying  like  a  broken-spir- 
ited child.     In  her  simplicity  and  her  pain, 
88 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

she  burst  forth  into  wild  and  inapt  apos- 
trophe : 

"  0,  God!  the  heathen  have  come  into  Thine 
inheritance.  They  have  cast  fire  into  Thy  sanc- 
tuary:  they  have  defiled  by  casting  doirn  l/i<>, 
dwelling-place  of  Thy  name  to  the  ground." 

And  again,  as  the  ache  in  head  and  heart 
were  insupportable : 

"  They  set  their  mouth  against  the  heavens,  and 
their  tongue  walketh  through  the  earth.  Tliere- 
fore,  His  people  return  thither,  and  u-aters  of 
a  full  cup  are  wrung  out  to  them.'1'1 

Startled  to  find  that  she  was  speak- 
ing aloud,  she  sat  upright  and  took  her 
racked  head  between  her  hands,  pressing 
it  with  all  her  might  to  still  the  agonizing 
throbs. 

"  I  believe  I  am  losing  my  senses,"  she 
thought.  "  Try  as  I  will,  I  can't  lay  hold  of 
the  Promises.  They  used  always  to  be 
within  reach.  What  good  could  they  do  me 
if  I  could  recollect  every  one  of  them  ?  How 
do  I  know  which  to  depend  upon,  and  what 

89 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

are  nothing  but  sinful  men's  words?  A 
great  many — ever  and  ever  so  many  and  such 
strong  comforting  texts ! — are  in  the  Psalms 
and  in  St.  John.  Robert  says  that  GOD 
never  told  David  and  John  to  write  them. 
He  doesn't  care  whether  they  are  GOD'S 
words  or  man's,  so  long  as  they  are  true  and 
do  him  good.  I  do ! "  flinging  it  out 
vehemently.  "  I  want  to  be  sure  that  '  GOD 
spake  all  these  words.'  Nothing  makes  my 
soul  safe  short  of  '  Thus  saith  the  Lord ! '  I 
suppose  it's  because  I  am  so  weak  and  silly 
and  sinful  that  nothing  else  satisfies  me. 
Yet  Robert  is  so  positive,  and  he  ought  to 
know.  I  do  want  to  agree  with  him  in 
everything.  O  Lord  !  be  merciful  unto  me ! 
for  my  soul  is  sore  vexed." 

The  eastern  branches  of  the  locust  trees 
were  flushed  by  the  morning  when  the  hot 
eyes  closed  in  uurestful  sleep.  She  awoke  at 
eight  o'clock  to  see  her  mother  standing  by 
the  bed.  She  had  on  a  lilac  print  gown  and 

a  white  apron.     Her  eyes  were  liquid  with 
90 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

tender  anxiety  and  in  her  lips  the  law  of 
kindness  was  honey-sweet. 

"  My  pretty  !  "  she  cooed,  stroking  Lack 
the  tumbled  hair  with  a  plump  hand  won- 
drous light  for  its  size.  "  How  is  the  poor 
head  by  now?  I  wouldn't  disturb  you  be- 
fore, for  I  wanted  that  you  should  sleep  it 
off." 

"  It  doesn't  ache, — I  think,  mother  !  "  She 
raised  it  and  it  dropped  back  on  the  pillow 
unexpectedly  and  heavily.  "I'll  feel  better 
when  I  have  bathed  and  dressed,"  she  per- 
sisted. "  I'm  ashamed  to  be  so  lazy." 

"  You're  never  that,  dearie.  I  was  up  here 
awhile  ago,  but  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  wake 
you — you  looked  so  white  and  tired.  Robert 
stopped  at  the  door  on  his  way  to  the 
seven-twenty  train,  to  ask  after  you.  He 
said  not  to  call  you  if  you  weren't  up.  He 
hadn't  a  minute  to  spare.  Here's  a  book  he 
left  with  his  love.  There's  a  note  with  it. 
He  was  anxious  about  your  head  and  was 
real  pleased  to  hear  you  were  sleeping  it  off. 

91 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

Now,  Til  fetch  up  a  cup  of  green  tea. 
There's  nothing  better  for  nervous  headache 
than  green  tea  without  so  much  as  a  grain  of 
black.  As  for  the  stuff  people  swig  because 
'  English  breakfast '  is  fashionable,  I  wouldn't 
give  a  cent  a  pound  for  it." 

"  You  and  Robert  would  spoil  me  to  death 
if  I'd  let  you,"  Ruth  said,  with  a  tremulous 
smile  and  an  abortive  feint  at  a  pout. 
"  There's  nothing  really  the  matter  with 
me.  I'll  take  a  quinine  capsule  before  I 
eat  my  breakfast.  I  may  have  a  touch  of 
malaria." 

The  maternal  brow  cleared.  "  Malaria  " 
covers  a  multitude  of  bodily  sins  in  the 
sight  of  Briardalers.  The  fiend  is  an  enemy 
they  have  almost  ceased  to  dread  because 
familiar  with  his  tricks  and  his  manners.  To 
bombard  him  with  quinine  and  to  scare  him 
with  calisaya,  to  fortify  the  citadel  of  health 
with  sarsaparilla  and  to  build  bomb-proofs 
of  maltine  and  chalybeate  bitters, — are  all 

that  the  average  system  requires  to  secure  if 
92 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

from  serious  injury.  To  neglect  these  pre- 
cautions in  the  spring  and  fall  is  to  fly  into 
the  face  of  a  forbearing  Providence. 

Mrs.  Bergen  adopted  the  malarial  hypoth- 
esis with  alacrity,  and  saw  to  it  that  her 
daughter  swallowed  a  two-grain  capsule 
(broken  doses  are  always  more  effectual  than 
heroic)  three  times  daily  on  Monday,  Tues- 
day, Wednesday  and  Thursday.  She  saw  to 
it  the  more  rigidly  because  of  her  increasing 
dissatisfaction  with  Ruth's  looks  and  behav- 
ior. She  spent  much  time  in  her  own  room ; 
there  were  bistre  semicircles  under  her  eyes; 
her  complexion  was  dull,  with  gray  shadows 
about  the  mouth  and  lurking  in  the  temples. 
A  vein  that  was  scarcely  visible  when  she 
was  well  showed  as  if  curved  by  a  blue 
pencil,  where  the  nose  met  the  brows. 

"  She  doesn't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  spar- 
row alive,"  Mrs.  Bergen  told  her  daughter 
during  a  visit  she  paid  to  Mrs.  de  Baun  on 
Thursday  afternoon.  "  The  child  works  her 
brain  too  hard  in  my  opinion.  Her  light 

93 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

wasn't  out  at  twelve  o'clock  last  night.  I 
saw  it  a-shining  on  the  locust  trees  from  my 
window  when  I  happened  to  wake  and  look 
out.  So,  upstairs  I  walked  myself,  and 
there  she  sat  with  a  book  Robert  left  for  her 
a-Monday  open  before  her,  and  writing  in  a 
sort  of  copy  book.  She  shut  it  up  in  a  hurry 
and  shoved  it  under  the  big  book  when  I 
spoke,  and  looked  as  scared  as  if  she  had 
been  caught  stealing.  I  didn't  say  a  cross 
word  to  her.  It  never  pays  to  scold  her, 
you  know.  She  takes  it  too  humbly.  But 
I  did  tell  her  that  she  was  breaking  herself 
down  studying  so  constant — and  after  all 
was  said  and  done,  where  was  the  use  of  try- 
ing to  know  everything  ?  She  clipped  in  as 
quick  as  a  flash  there,  and  says  she,  in  a  de- 
cided kind  of  way, — '  You're  right,  mother ! 
there  is  no  use  in  it.  It's  worse  than  useless. 
I'll  go  right  to  bed.' 

"  I  saw  she  was  down-hearted,  and  I 
petted  her  a  little  and  saw  her  into  bed  and 
that  she'd  a  pitcher  of  fresh  water  by  her 

94 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

bed.  She  tells  me  she  wakes  up  thirsty 
these  warmish  nights,  and  drinks  and 
drinks.  Father,  he  was  wondering  this 
morning  if  she  has  an  inward  fever.  If  she 
ain't  better  in  a  day  or  two,  I'll  ask  the 
doctor  to  look  at  her.  I  'most  wish,  some- 
times, that  she  wasn't  so  ambitious.  She's 
that  anxious  to  keep  up  with  Robert  that 
she'll  overdo  if  she  ain't  careful.  And 
what's  education  without  health  ?  " 

Having  had  her  grumble  out,  Mrs. 
Bergen's  mind  was  pleasantly  receptive  of 
environing  influences  while  she  walked 
homeward.  She  was  not  really  uneasy 
about  Ruth's  health  and  was,  in  fact,  dis- 
posed to  be  proud  of  the  intellectual  toil  she 
affected  to  deprecate.  At  the  corner  nearest 
her  home  she  stopped  to  chat  with  Mina 
Romeyn  and  Annie  Bogardus,  nice  enough 
girls,  both  of  them,  but  all  agog  about  beaux 
and  clothes  and  frolics.  They  had  attended 
the  same  New  York  school  with  Ruth,  but 

Mrs.  Bergen  doubted  if  either  of  them  read 
95 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

three  hooks  a  year.  As  to  poring  over  and 
enjoying,  much  less  taking  notes  out  of  a 
hook  like  that  Search-lights  of  Scripture 
Rohert  had  sent  to  Ruth,  and  which  the 
mother  had  opened  once  only  to  he  con- 
founded by  the  ponderous  paragraphs  and  ser- 
ried footnotes — the  worthy  woman  smiled  to 
herself,  charitably  derisive  of  the  suggestion. 
Strolling  on  in  the  middle  of  the  asphalt 
sidewalk  bounded  on  both  sides  with  velvet 
sward,  she  felt  her  already  bountiful  soul 
expand  and  glow  with  the  season  and  the 
sunsetting.  There  was  not  a  prettier  place 
up  and  down  the  river  than  Briardale,  if  it 
ivas  on  a  Branch  road  and  had  only  two 
trains  each  way  a  day,  and  not  a  nicer  house 
in  Briardale  than  the  square,  porticoed 
colonial  homestead  in  which  her  husband 
and  all  his  children  were  born.  Pausing  at 
the  gate  she  looked  it  all  over  with  a  full 
heart.  The  clump  of  cinnamon  roses  in  the 
corner  of  the  yard,  planted  by  her  husband's 

mother,  had  as  many  flowers  as  leaves  upon 
96 


Locust-blooms  and  Higher  Criticism 

it.  The  modern  "monthlies"  were  affluent 
in  buds ;  the  lilac  hedge,  dividing  the  lawn 
on  the  north  side  from  the  garden,  still  made! 
a  goodly  show  of  mauve  and  white  blossoms. 
And  the  honeysuckles  ! — she  had  had  bushels 
of  suckers  and  wandering  runners  pruned 
away  ten  days  ago,  and  now,  look  at  them  ! 
Almost  as  rank  as  ever,  and  hardly  room 
for  a  pin's  point  between  the  blooms ! 
There  was  a  litter  of  locust-flowers  upon  the 
turf  and  gravel  walk.  She  was  sorry  they 
had  begun  to  fall.  She  ivould  say  there 
weren't  many  sweeter  smells  than  locust- 
flowers  and  they  were  a'most  as  handsome  as 
roses  and  lilies.  She  was  always  proud  of 
that  row  of  locusts. 

"  The  lines  have  fallen  to  me  in  pleasant 
places.  Yea,  I  have  a  goodly  heritage"  mur- 
mured the  pious  soul,  as  the  mistress  of  the 
heritage  entered  the  pleasant  places  of  the 
roomy  hall.  The  double  Dutch  doors  front 
and  back  gave  to  her  glistening  eyes  the 

symphony     in     pink-and-white     of      locust 
7  97 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

flowers,    repeated    and    chorused   by   apple 
and  cherry-blooms  in  garden  and  orchard. 

Halfway  on  the  staircase  leading  to  her 
chamber  she  was  arrested  by  an  odd,  moan- 
ing noise. 


98 


IV 

"DYING,  SIR!  DYING!" 

A  NOTE  from  Robert  to  his  betrothed  had 
accompanied  Search-lights  of  Scripture. 

Ruth's  gratifying  interest  in  a  subject  that 
engrossed  much  of  his  own  thought  just  now 
assured  him  that  she  would  read  with  pro- 
found attention  a  volume  that  had  opened  to 
him  a  new  world  of  study  and  speculation. 
No  fiction  had  ever  given  him  such  lively 
intellectual  pleasure  as  he  had  found  in  these 
fascinating  pages.  No  scientific  discovery 
was  fraught  with  more  important  results  to 
the  human  race  than  the  conclusions  the 
author  had  drawn  from  his  biological  and 
theological  researches. 

"  Acting  upon  the  principle  of  which  I 
spoke  last  night,  I  would  not  trust  the 
average  woman  to  read  this  book,"  he  went 
on  to  say.  "  The  limitations  of  custom  and 

99 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

superstition,  mistaken  by  many  for  pious 
fervor,  are  peculiarly  strong  with  women, 
and  unfit  them  for  impartial  consideration 
where  the  element  of  emotion  is  allowed  to 
enter.  Your  cool  head  and  excellent  com- 
mon sense  are  a  guarantee  that  you  may  be 
trusted  to  get  all  the  good  out  of  this 
treatise  and  take  no  harm  from  the  perusal. 
The  author  is  an  eminent  clergyman  whose 
advanced  views  have  brought  him  into 
especial  prominence  as  a  pioneer  in  the  New 
Movement. 

"  I  anticipate  with  unusual  eagerness  next 
Saturday  evening's  talk  with  you.  I  cannot 
express  in  this  hurried  note  how  much  I 
enjoyed  our  discussion  of  last  night.  It  was 
like  'iron  sharpening  iron.'  But  when  do  I 
not  revel  in  your  society  ?  "  etc.,  etc. 

Ruth's  brain  was  still  giddy  and  her  scalp 
sore  to  the  touch  after  the  cruel  headache, 
when  she  began  on  Monday  forenoon  the 
perusal  of  the  fascinating  book.  The  first 

two  chapters  were  preliminary  and  tentative, 
100 


"  Dying,  Sir  !  Dying !  " 

and  she  had  to  summon  will-power  to  coerce 
her  mind  into  a  sickly  show  of  attentiveness. 
Robert's  talk  had  made  her  tolerably  famil- 
iar with  such  phrases  as  Verbal  and  Plenary 
Inspiration,  the  Authenticity  of  Revelation, 
Theophany  and  Christophanies.  She  had 
even  a  shadowy  conception  of  what  was 
meant  by  Eschatology,  and  did  not  faint 
and  fall,  albeit  bruised  and  shaken,  when 
she  ran  up  against  the  jutting  crag  of  Bib- 
lical Anthropology.  Her  father  had  given 
her  Webster's  Unabridged  when  she  left  school, 
and  a  fairly  good  Encyclopaedia  bowed  the 
back  of  a  shelf  in  the  family  bookcase.  She 
was  not,  therefore,  altogether  left  to  her  own 
devices  when  she  put  out  to  sea. 

After  an  hour  of  conscientious  rowing  in 
waters  which  she  could  see  were  dark,  and 
which  she  took  it  for  granted  were  deep, 
she  was  ashamed  to  find  that  her  jaws  ached 
for  an  honest,  wide,  expressive  yawn  and 
that  her  head  was  thicker  than  when  she 
sat  down  to  be  fascinated.  She  was  disap- 

101 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

pointed  and  Robert  would  be  chagrined, 
when  he  learned  that  he  had  overrated  her 
intellectual  scope.  Drowsiness,  engendered 
by  the  warmth  of  the  day  and  the  loss  of 
last  night's  rightful  amount  of  sleep,  was 
tempting  her  to  relinquish  the  task  and  in- 
dulge herself  in  a  plain,  trite  noon  nap, 
when,  fluttering  the  leaves  negligently,  her 
roving  glance  rested  upon  four  lines  of 
poetry  in  the  middle  of  a  page. 

"  Far  hence  He  lies 

In  the  lorn,  Syrian  town, 
And  on  His  grave,  with  shining  eyes, 
The  Syrian  stars  look  down." 

Still  uninterested,  she  went  back  to  the 
context : 

"  To  borrow  the  eloquent  words  of  an- 
other,— 'The  ashes  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth 
mingled  with  the  dust  of  Palestine.'  " 

"What!" 

Alive  and  alert,  she  sat  up  and  attacked 
the  chapter  embodying  the  monstrous  lie — • 
fell  upon  it  as  upon  a  living,  audacious  foe. 

102 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!" 

Until  that  instant  the  knowledge  that  the 
Resurrection — the  pivotal  truth  of  the  Chris- 
tian Religion,  without  which  Paul  declares 
Faith  to  be  vain  and  the  Apostles  false  wit- 
nesses of  GOD — was  questioned  by  those  who 
lay  claim  to  the  name  of  "believers,"  had 
never  come  to  the  old-fashioned  church- 
woman.  Nor  did  the  eminent  author  of 
Search-lights  of  Scripture  put  forward  the 
theory  as  of  his  own  having  and  holding. 
While  bringing  the  search-light  to  bear  upon 
all  articles  of  the  Christian  Creed,  this  could 
not  be  overlooked.  He  cited  the  doubt  as 
the  conviction  of  others  the  latchet  of  whose 
shoes  he  was  not  worthy  to  unloose ;  the 
arguments  against  the  theory  that  Christ 
arose  from  the  dead,  as  the  reasoning  of  ad- 
vanced thinkers  who  would  fain  shatter  the 
fetters  of  Bibliolatry  and  Christolatry  and 
bring  the  world  to  the  feet  of  the  All-Father 
and  into  the  glorious  light  of  liberated 
thought.  "These,"  he  said,  "are  the  life- 
warriors  who  exalt  ethics  above  creeds,  who 

103 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

love  Good  for  Good's  sake,  and  claim  eternal 
life  as  the  heritage,  not  the  reward,  of  the 
soul  that  came  from  GOD  and  will  return  to, 
and  be  resolved  into  GOD." 

The  eloquent  quotation  was  continued  in 
these  words: 

"'And  in  the  days  and  weeks  that  fol- 
lowed, the  devout  and  passionate  fancy  of  a 
few  mourning  Galileans  begat  the  exquisite 
fable  of  the  Resurrection.  How  natural — - 
and  amid  all  its  falseness — how  true  is  that 
naive  and  contradictory  story!  The  rapid- 
ity with  which  it  spread  is  a  measure  of 
many  things.  It  is,  above  all,  a  measure  of 
the  greatness  of  Jesus,  of  the  force  with 
which  He  had  drawn  to  Himself  the  hearts 
and  imaginations  of  men.'  " 

The  chapter  immediately  preceding  that 
upon  The  Resurrection  was  entitled  "  The 
Love  of  Christ'''  Another  was  upon  "  The 
Hypothesis  that  Miracles  are  of  Human 
Origin"  Still  another  was  headed — "  The 

Man  Jesus  a  Martyr,  not  a  Sacrifice" 
104 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!" 

It  was  while  reading  the  last-named  that 
Ruth's  horrified  imagination  caught  at  the 
idea  of  refuting  the  testimony  of  the  Search- 
lights to  her  own  satisfaction,  if  not  to 
llobert's  conviction,  by  arguments  drawn 
from  Scripture  and  framed  by  the  common 
sense  her  betrothed  had  commended.  She 
had  taken  notes  of  school-lectures,  and  writ- 
ten abstracts  of  sermons,  histories  and  essays. 
Providing  herself  with  blank-book  and  foun- 
tain-pen, she  laid  open  before  her,  /Search- 
lights of  Scripture,  on  one  side  Crudens  Con- 
cordance, on  the  other  the  Bible,  and  near  at 
hand  a  venerable  copy  of  Adam  Clarke's  Com- 
mentaries that  had  belonged  to  her  grand- 
father. Thus  equipped,  she  began  the  cam- 
paign against  principalities  and  powers  that 
are  blockading  the  Church  of  GOD  on  earth. 

A  comic  element  would  interfuse  the  situa- 
tion were  the  piteousness  of  it  less  apparent. 
Her  tactics  were  so  puerile,  her  armament 
and  her  command  of  it  so  incomplete,  and, 

above  all,  her  trust  in  the  Promise  to  which 
105 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 


was  her  appeal — "  It  shall  be  given  you  in  that 
hour  what  you  shall  speak  " — was  so  childlike 
in  its  entireness,  that  laughter  is  smothered 
by  a  sob. 

For  this  was  all  she  knew  how  to  do: — 
Upon  one  page  of  the  blank-book  she  wrote 
out  objectionable  (from  her  standpoint)  ex- 
tracts from  Search-lights,  and  others  of  like 
nature  quoted  from  her  recollections  of  Rob- 
ert's harangues.  She  transcribed  conscien- 
tiously such  sentiments  as  had  shocked  her 
most  cruelly,  the  sophistries  which  were 
most  plausible  and  hardest  to  answer.  That 
each  was  a  thorn  pressed  into  the  quick  of 
her  soul,  did  not  turn  her  aside  by  so  much 
as  a  hair's  breadth.  This  done,  she  wrote 
upon  the  opposite  pages  texts  of  Scripture 
adverse  to  the  author's  assertions  and  deduc- 
tions, and  prim  little  didacticisms  of  her  own 
composition,  drawn  from  early  education  and 
backed  up  by  Adam  Clarke  and  the  burning 
desire  to  overthrow  what  must  be  false. 

It  was  a  battle  for  her  Religion  at  the  first 

106 


"Dying,   Sir!  Dying!" 

— as  a  Religion,  a  system  of  belief,  a  vital, 
but  comparatively  abstract,  principle.  Robert 
had  praised  her  cool  head.  She  would  keep 
it  cool  and  "level."  Women,  according  to 
him,  were  swayed  by  partialities  and  by  emo- 
tion in  their  judgment  of  evidence.  She 
would  remain  upon  the  outside  of  her  subject 
and  give  due  weight,  with  a  leaning  toward 
mercy,  to  her  opponent's  argument.  Had 
her  knowledge  of  her  own  sex  been  larger, 
she  would  have  comprehended  that  with 
women  an  assailed  Cause  speedily  passes 
from  the  abstract  into  the  concrete,  although 
not  one  in  ten  knows  the  meaning  of  the 
technical  terms.  The  persecuted  thing -is 
taken  to  heart,  adopted  by  the  affections,  in- 
terwoven with  conscience,  identified  with  the 
advocate's  personality,  until  she  does  not 
know  herself  apart  from  it.  To  the  woman's 
intellect,  Truth  (or  what  she  assumes  to  be 
truth)  is  as  purely  bright  as  that  side  of 
Venus  which,  astronomers  tell  us,  forever 
faces  the  sun.  Error  is  the  planet's  other 

107 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

and,  to  us,  invisible  hemisphere,  upon  which 
the  sun  never  rises — a  realm  of  black  ice 
and  hopeless  frosts.  With  her,  doubt  and 
disbelief  are  synonyms,  and  gradations  of 
faith  are  unknown  quantities.  "  Almost  a 
Christian"  belongs  to  the  category  of  "Al- 
most an  honest  man  "  and  "  Almost  a  virtu- 
ous woman."  Almost  saved  is  to  be  wholly 
lost. 

This  idiosyncracy  of  her  sex  was  by  no 
means  the  weakest  of  Ruth  Bergen's  limita- 
tions. It  closed  in  and  tightened  upon  her 
with  each  hour  of  the  unequal  contest.  By 
Wednesday  night  she  knew  that  she  was 
playing  a  losing  game.  She  had  not  slept 
two  hours  at  a  time  since  Sunday.  The 
weight  of  what  felt  like  a  hot  palm  lay  more 
and  more  heavily  upon  the  top  of  her  head 
as  hour  was  superadded  to  hour  of  mental 
toil  and  spiritual  anguish.  She  had  spasms 
of  almost  murderous  resentment  against 
those  who  had  discerned  and  exposed  the 

tatters  and  thin  spots  in  the  royal  raiment  of 
108 


"  Dying,   Sir  !   Dying !  " 

the  Scriptures.  As  judged  by  her,  they  had 
done  no  good  to  any  living  creature.  They 
would  make  thousands  most  miserable,  who, 
but  fur  their  officious  display  of  learning, 
would  have  ordered  their  lives  according  to 
the  Bible  in  which  they  believed,  died  hap- 
pily, trusting  to  Bible  promises,  and  gone  to 
the  heaven  of  which  they  would  have  re- 
mained ignorant  but  for  that  inspired  Word. 
If  all  that  the  Higher  Critics  as  expounded 
by  her  betrothed,  claimed  were  true, — if 
Christ's  death  were  not  a  sacrifice  for  the 
sins  of  the  world,  but  a  martyr's  fate  that 
had  no  atoning  efficacy ;  if  the  Father  had 
not  sent  His  Only-begotten  Son  to  suffer  and 
to  die  as  a  Propitiation  for  our  sins  ;  if  Christ 
had  never  arisen  from  the  dead  and  become 
the  first-fruits  of  them  that  sleep ;  if  Old 
Testament  stories  were  myths,  and  Biblical 
prophecies  were  not  predictions  and  were 
never  to  be  fulfilled  ;  if  John  the  Evangelist 
were  no  more  inspired  than  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier, — yet,  so  long  as  the  world  is  the 

109 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

better  and  the  people  in  it  the  happier  for 
believing  the  old,  old  Story — it  is  cruel — it 
is  fiendish  to  empty  the  soul  of  faith  and 
give  it  nothing — nothing — -in  exchange  for 
what  it  valued  as  a  pearl  of  great  price. 

Tliis  was  the  weak  and  womanish  conclu- 
sion of  a  three  days'  study  which  had  been, 
for  two  of  the  three,  a  desperate  battle  for 
her  soul's  salvation.  She  could  not  answer 
logically  one  of  the  arguments  she  had  dis- 
puted ;  it  had  not  been  given  to  her  in  that 
supreme  hour  what  she  should  say,  or  even 
think.  She  had  passed  through  the  waters, 
and  they  had  overflowed  her,  and  the  fires 
had  kindled  upon  her  soul. 

"  I  may  be  weak.  They  are  wicked  !  "  she 
said  deliberately.  "  It  is  like  knocking  the 
crutches  from  under  a  cripple's  arms,  and 
leaving  him  to  get  along  without  so  much  as 
a  stick.  I  wish  the  man  who  wrote  this  book 
had  been  paralyzed  before  he  ever  put  pen 
to  paper.  If  there  is  a  Hereafter,  and  if  any 

of  the  things  he  denies  are  true,  he  will  have 
110 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!' 

to  account  for  what  he  has  done — sometime 
and  somewhere." 

This  was  on  Thursday  afternoon,  and  just 
after  she  had  read  a  scholarly  exposition  of 
the  passage  in  the  alleged  prediction  of  the 
putative  Isaiah : 

"  He  was  wounded  for  our  transgression  ;  He 
was  bruised  for  our  iniquities:  the  chastisement 
of  our  peace  was  upon  Him,  and  icith  His 
stripes  we  are  healed." 

According  to  this  exposition,  the  words 
are  not  a  Messianic  prophecy.  They  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  crucified  Messiah,  and 
refer  solely  to  persecuted  Israel  under  the 
Captivity. 

Ruth  brought  the  two  sides  of  the  book 
together  with  a  sharp  concussion,  raised  her 
arm  high  and  flung  Search-lights  across  the 
room  with  force  that  drove  it  fast  into  a 
corner. 

"  I  won't  read  another  word  !  "  she  cried, 
passionately.  "  They  have  undermined  my 

faith.     They  have  taken  away  my  only  hope 
111 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

in  life  and  in  death.  GOD  may  forgive  them 
—if  there  is  any  GOD  left  after  they  have 
done  with  Him.  I  never  will !  " 

She  reviewed  the  closely-written  pages  of 
her  notebook,  and  sneered  forlornly.  Most 
of  the  proof-texts  were  gleaned  from  dis- 
puted portions  of  the  Book  whose  authentic- 
ity she  had  tried  to  substantiate  ;  her  argu- 
ments were  as  weak  as  water.  She  was  like 
a  defeated  army  that  sees  its  own  guns 
turned  upon  it.  Ripping  page  after  page 
from  the  covers,  she  crammed  them  into  a 
waste-basket  before  she  obeyed  the  call  to 
dinner. 

Her  mother  had  a  tablespoonful  of  Beef- 
Iron-and-Wine  poured  out  for  her ;  her 
father  shaved  a  slice  of  corned  beef  so  thin 
that  it  writhed  after  the  knife-blade  like  a 
pine-shaving,  and  laid  it  silently  upon  her 
plate.  Mrs.  Bergen  pressed  some  homemade 
pickled  white  onions  upon  her  daughter. 
They  were  first-rate  for  bringing  up  the  ap- 
petite, and  if  Ruth  would  chew  a  few  grains 
112 


"  Dying,  Sir  !  Dying  !  " 

of  roasted  coffee  after  dinner,  it  would  make 
her  breath  all  right  again.  Not  that  it  mat- 
tered much  anyway.  "Robert" — slyly— 
"wouldn't  be  home  until  Saturday." 

The  girl  made  a  languid  feint  at  dining,  as 
much  to  avert  inquiry  as  to  please  those 
whose  darling  she  was.  She  made  talk,  too, 
in  the  pauses  between  Mrs.  Bergen's  kindly 
cooings.  An  extra  spoonful  of  green  tea — 
"  real  hyson," — had  gone  into  the  pot  on 
purpose  to  tone  Ruth's  nerves.  It  was 
strong  enough  to  bear  up  an  egg,  and  bitter 
as  soot,  even  after  it  had  been  "eased  down  " 
with  cream  so  thick  that  it  had  to  be  ladled 
out  of  the  cream-jug.  Plenty  of  the  same 
deluged  Ruth's  share  of  rice-pudding.  Mrs. 
Bergen  "held  to  cream  "  as  an  up-builder  of 
the  human  system.  If  her  churn  were  the 
poorer  for  her  daughter's  invalidism,  she  did 
not  "  begrudge  "  the  waste.  While  the  girl 
toyed  with  her  spoon,  dabbling  it  in  the  con- 
tents of  her  saucer,  and  now  and  then,  rais- 
ing it  to  her  lips,  her  seniors  seemed  not  to 
8  113 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

notice  how  little  she  ate  and  how  little  she 
said.  They  were  very  kind  and  tactful.  She 
had  much  to  be  thankful  for,  and  a  part  of 
the  much  was  that  the  cause  of  her  distress 
was  not  suspected.  Her  father  would  have 
no  patience  with  Robert's  "crochetty  no- 
tions," and  her  mother  would  think  hard  of 
the  boy  for  worrying  her  child.  In  a  day  or 
two  she  would  pull  herself  straight.  As  soon 
as  she  could  think  of  something  besides 
Plenary  Inspiration,  Scriptural  Sagas,  the 
Authenticity  of  the  Fourth  Gospel  and  the 
Moral  Influence  Theory,  she  would  prove 
that  she  was  neither  unobservant  nor  un- 
grateful. She  hoped  her  father  and  mother 
would  never  hear  of  the  Higher  Criticism, 
and  that  Garrett,  Jr.,  would  live,  grow  up  into 
an  old  man  and  die  without  ever  reading 
Search-lights  of  Scripture. 

If  only  the  ringing  in  her  ears,  which 
must  be  caused  by  quinine,  and  the  singing 
over  and  over  in  her  brain  of  those  four 

dreadful  lines  would  stop  ! 
114 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!" 

'Far  heuce  lie  lies 

In  the  lorn,  Syrian  town — " 

That  must  be    Jerusalem,   where   they  laid 
Him  to  rest  in  Joseph's  new  tomb— 

"And  on  His  grave  with  shining  eyes, 
The  Syrian  stars  look  down." 

The  hateful  rhyme  haunted  her,  stuck  to 
her  memory  like  thistle-down  that,  when 
blown  away,  floats  up  a  little  way  and  set- 
tles back  again.  She  caught  herself  brush- 
ing it  away  as  she  \vould  a  gnat. 

She  was  moaning  it  as  fast  as  she  could 
articulate  the  syllables,  rolling  her  head  from 
side  to  side  to  get  rid  of  the  floating  parti- 
cles, when  her  mother  heard  her  on  the  stairs 
and  came  to  see  what  had  gone  wrong. 

Ruth  lay  upon  her  side  across  the  bed  as 
if  she  had  fallen  there.  There  was  no  pillow 
under  her  head,  which  had  dropped  back  in 
an  attitude  no  reasonable  creature  would 
have  kept  for  a  moment.  Her  face  was 

almost  purple. 

115 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

"  And  no  wonder,  with  all  the  blood  de- 
terminating to  your  head,  child!"  ejaculated 
Mrs.  Bergen,  rushing  forward  to  raise  it. 

Her  color  was  not  lowered,  and  she  talked 
all  the  time  her  mother  was  loosening  her 
clothes  and  getting  her  to  bed  in  such  deco- 
rous sort  as  became  a  Christian  sickening 
for  typhoid. 

That  was  the  doctor's  diagnosis.  Here 
was  the  key  to  headache,  nausea,  insomnia — 
every  symptom  that  had  baffled  and  troubled 
her  friends.  Mrs.  de  Baun  was  sent  for  and 
arrived  before  bedtime,  prepared  to  stay 
while  the  fever  ran  its  course.  It  ran  fast 
and  furiously,  and  Ruth's  talk  kept  up  with 
it.  Not  once  was  it  still  all  that  night  while 
the  two  women  sat  up  with  her,  their  eyes, 
brimful  of  awe  and  grief,  meeting  in  mute 
questioning  over  the  pillow  creased  by  the 
tossing  head,  and  while  the  father,  as 
wretched  and  sleepless  as  they,  roamed  from 
floor  to  floor  of  the  house  and  paced  the 
piazza  by  the  hour  until  the  day  broke. 

116 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!" 

So  frightfully  rapid  was  the  "  course  " 
that  on  Saturday  noon,  they  telegraphed  for 
Robert  Craig. 

"  Ruth  dangerously  ill.  Come  at  once.  No 
time  to  lose.  Garrett  Bergen.'1'' 

There  were  just  the  regulation  ten  words. 
Ten  hundred  could  not  have  put  the  case 
more  strongly  or  carried  consternation  more 
forcefully  to  the  lover's  heart.  The  doctor 
still  talked  of  typhoid  and  the  predestined 
course,  but  he  would  not  guarantee  that 
"  something  might  not  supervene  unless  the 
patient  could  be  quieted." 

"  She  is  talking  herself  to  death,"  he  said 
to  Mr.  Bergen  upon  his  return  to  the 
chamber  after  sending  the  telegram  dictated 
by  the  father's  heart  and  not  the  physician's 
tongue. 

Mr.  Bergen  stood  by  the  bed,  looking 
down  upon  the  darkly  flushed  face  and  wild 
eyes,  his  features  set  hard  as  in  a  plaster 

cast.     When  he  put  his  hand  upon  her  fore- 
117 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

head,  Ruth  jerked  away  from  him  and  kept 
up  the  terrible  roll  back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth.  It  was  enough  of  itself  to  exhaust  her 
vitality.  Her  tongue  was  swollen,  her  baked 
lips  moved  incessantly  in  rapid,  incoherent 
whisperings. 

"  It  beats  all  where  she  got  the  stuff  she 
talks,"  said  the  mother.  "  It's  all  about  the 
subject  of  religion.  Sometimes  she  prays, 
most  times  she's  repeating  texts  and  asking 
Robert  what  they  mean.  Maybe,  when  he 
conies,  he  may  be  able  to  quiet  her  a  bit. 
She's  lost  her  voice  and  no  wonder !  " 

She  offered  another  conjecture  by-and-bye. 
Could  the  young  folks  have  quarreled  ? 
Ruth  was  always  too  sensitive  and  that 
bound  up  in  Robert  that  a  sharp  word  from 
him  would  go  near  to  breaking  her  heart. 
Opposed  to  this  were  Robert's  call  on  the 
way  to  the  train  Monday  morning,  the  letter 
and  parcel  left  for  his  betrothed,  and  Ruth's 
remark — "You  and  he  would  spoil  me  to 
death  if  you  could."  It  was  a  hopeless  puz- 

118 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!" 

zle.  Mrs.  de  Baun  connected  her  sister's 
ravings  with  the  sermon  on  the  piazza  Sun- 
day night.  Ruth's  mind  ran  continually 
upon  Inspiration  and  the  like,  and  Robert 
had  discoursed  at  length  upon  the  subject. 
But  there !  what  was  the  use  of  guessing  ? 
Most  likely  the  things  she  talked  most  of, 
now  that  she  was  out  of  her  head,  never 
entered  her  brain  while  she  was  well.  That 
was  generally  the  way  with  delirious  people. 
And  crazy  ones  as  well. 

Mr.  Bergen  listened  to  them  with  one  ear. 
The  other  ear  and  all  of  his  thoughts  were 
bent  upon  his  girl.  Leaning  low  to  the 
fever-dried  mouth,  he  distinguished  her 
lover's  name,  followed  by  a  medley  of  the- 
ological terms  and  allusions  to  certain  books 
in  the  Bible,  jumbled  together  inextricably 
and  without  a  show  of  sequence.  As  he 
straightened  himself  with  a  sigh  of  utter 
bafflement,  he  espied  the  fallen  volume, 
overlooked  in  its  dark  corner  In  the  disorder 
and  anxiety  of  the  last  few  days.  His  wife's 

119 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

mention  of  Ruth's  studies  during  the  earlier 
part  of  the  week  had  quickened  the  de- 
tective instinct  within  him.  On  his  way 
across  the  room  to  pick  up  the  book,  he  saw 
the  torn  MSS.  in  the  wastebasket.  Book 
and  basket  went  with  him  downstairs. 

Twilight,  murky  with  rain,  was  shorten- 
ing the  vista  of  the  village  street  as  Robert 
Craig  leaped  from  the  six  o'clock  train  and 
took  his  hurried  way  by  the  nearest  cross- 
cuts to  the  Bergen  homestead.  The  "  long 
season  in  Ma}7,"  otherwise  known  as  "  the 
blossom-storm,"  had  closed  in  upon  the 
valley  that  morning,  continuing,  with  inter- 
mittent gusts  of  wind  like  hysterical  weep- 
ing, all  day.  The  asphalt  sidewalks  showed 
black  and  glossy  between  fallen  petals  from 
trees  and  hedges.  Before  the  Bergen  house 
it  was  carpeted,  as  with  discolored  snow,  by 
the  bereft  locust-trees.  In  the  gravel-walk 
leading  from  the  gate  to  the  porch  the 
drenched  blossoms  were  drifted  between  the 
low  box-rows.  The  young  man's  hasty  feet 

120 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!" 

crushed  them  with  a  mournful,  soaked 
sound.  In  the  corners  of  the  steps  they 
were  huddled  by  the  wind  and  packed  by 
showers.  Robert  took  in  every  detail  of  the 
scene  with  the  strained  intensity  of  con- 
sciousness that  is  born  under  powerful  ex- 
citement, like  a  sixth  sense  with  which  the 
other  senses  and  volition  have  nothing  to 
do. 

The  front-door  was  closed,  but  not  locked. 
He  entered  without  ringing,  passing  on  at 
once  to  the  family  "living-room  "  to  the  left. 
The  light  of  a  lamp  streamed  out  into  the 
silent  hall.  It  stood  upon  the  centre-table 
by  which  Mr.  Bergen  was  sitting.  His  fore- 
head was  between  his  palms;  his  elbows 
rested  on  the  table,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
reading  intently.  About  and  beyond  the 
book  between  his  elbows  were  scattered 
sheets  of  written  paper.  Robert  took  it  all 
in  on  the  threshold,  without  the  pause  of  a 
second.  Passing  swiftly  to  the  old  man's 
side,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

121 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  lie  asked  in  husky  breath- 
lessness. 

He  recoiled,  throwing  up  his  arm  in  in- 
voluntary self-defence,  before  the  gesture  with 
•which  the  master  of  the  house  sprang  to  his 
feet.  His  face  blackened  and  wrinkled  with 
grief  and  rage ;  his  eyelids  were  swollen 
with  sleeplessness  and  tears ;  he  glared  redly 
at  the  intruder  as  at  a  rattlesnake.  When 
he  spoke  his  lips  rolled  back  from  teeth 
that  gnashed  upon  and  bit  at  the  words. 

"  So-o-o  !  "  drawing  out  the  monosyllable 
until  it  hissed.  "  You've  come  to  see  your 
work — have  you  ?  '  How  is  she  ? '  Dying, 
sir  !  dying !  1  thank  GOD  that  she  is,  when 
I  think  what  would  have  become  of  her  soul 
if  this  thing  had  gone  on  !  "  He  struck  the 
open  book  with  a  fist  doubled  hard.  "  This 
is  the  sort  of  devil's  dish  you  have  been 
feeding  her  upon  and  poisoning  her  with 
through  and  through.  This  is  your  prop- 
erty. Your  name  is  in  it.  I'll  show  you 

what   I   mean  to  do  with  it,  as  I  would  do 
122 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!" 

with  any  other  deadly  poison — rat's  bane,  or 
arsenic,  or  strychnine — left  within  reach  of 
an  innocent  child  like  that  upstairs." 

Seizing  the  book  with  one  hand,  he  cl  niched 
the  young  man's  shoulder  with  the  other  and 
dragged  him  through  the  dining-room  to  the 
kitchen. 

"Take  that  lid  off!"  he  commanded  the 
amazed  cook.  "  Don't  stand  gaping  there  ! 
Take  it  off,  I  say  !  " 

Into  the  glowing  crater  thus  bared,  he 
thrust  the  condemned  volume,  rammed  it 
into  the  reddest  hollow  of  the  coals  with  the 
poker,  and  as  it  caught  fire,  clashed  the  lid 
back  into  place. 

"  Now  come  !  "  he  uttered  to  the  thunder- 
stricken  visitor,  stalking  back  to  the  living- 
room. 

"  I  cannot  think  " — stammered  Robert, 
finding  voice  as  he  followed  him. 

Had  grief  driven  the  old  man  mad  ?  The 
suspicion  softened  the  heart  of  the  younger. 

"I   cannot   divine," — he  said,    more    dis- 
123 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

tinctly — "what  you  mean  to  accuse  me  of, 
Mr.  Bergen." 

The  retort  was  a  tigerish  snarl. 

"I  wish  you  had  never  tried  to  think! 
What  brains  you  once  had  were  eaten  out  by 
self-conceit  of  your  own  cleverness.  That 
is  the  trick  of  your  tribe.  The  first  use  you 
make  of  the  knowledge  that  you  have  minds 
is  to  try  to  prove  that  you  have  not  immortal 
souls.  As  soon  as  you  begin  to  know  any- 
thing, you  set  to  work  to  show  that  you  and 
everybody  else  knows  nothing.  O,  I  have 
heard  of  agnosticism — the  most  diabolical  of 
all  your  "  isms " — and  that  is  what  it 
amounts  to — just  that  and  nothing  else. 
No,  young  man !  I  have  not  lost  my  senses. 
I  mean  every  word  I  say  and  ten  thousand 
times  more.  I  have  read  what  that  suffering 
angel  has  written  here  " — gathering  up  the 
scattered  leaves  while  speaking.  "  Poor, 
ignorant  lamb  !  It  was  like  fighting  a  razor 
with  a  rye-straw.  You'll  see  what  I  am 

talking  about  when  you  read  these.     Read 
124 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!' 

them  you  shall,  if  I  have  to  stand  over  you 
while  you  do  it.  These  are  the  first-fruits 
of  your  ministry  of  reconciliation  " — with 
withering  sarcasm.  "  You  have  stripped  her 
of  everything  she  held  dear — and  given  her 
worse  than  nothing  in  return.  When  I 
think  of  it !  "— 

He  clenched  his  jaws;  opened  the  table- 
drawer,  put  the  papers  into  it  and  locked  it. 
Then  he  faced  his  companion  without  look- 
ing at  him — an  action  that  had  cutting  sig- 
nificance. 

"  Now — we  will  go  upstairs  !  " 

As  Robert  trod  the  carpeted  stairs  cau- 
tiously, in  mechanical  imitation  of  the 
father's  guarded  footfalls,  one  thought  formed 
itself  in  the  seething  chaldron  of  his  tor- 
tured wits. 

"  This  man's  limitations  are  simply  incredi- 
ble in  this  age  and  country  !  " 

In  the  overwhelming  bewilderment 
wrought  by  Mr.  Bergen's  attack,  the  young 
fellow  had  not  begun  to  apprehend  what  he 

125 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

was  to  meet  in  that  hushed  upper  chamber. 
The  mental  criticism  passed  upon  his  host 
was  an  automatic  act  of  reason  prompted 
by  the  habit  of  looking  back  of  effect  for 
cause. 

Logic  and  self-conceit  fled  together  with 
the  opening  of  the  bedroom  door.  Ruth  lay 
high  upon  her  pillows,  gasping  for  breath. 
Her  eyes  were  shut  and  sunken,  her  features 
pinched  into  the  sharp  outlines  of  death  ;  her 
mouth  still  worked  with  the  fast  outflow  of 
words  which  she  was  too  weak  to  make  audi- 
ble. This  whispering,  hardly  louder  than 
the  failing  breath,  was  the  only  sound  in  the 
room  except  for  the  weak  sighs  of  wind  made 
by  the  fan  with  which  Mrs.  de  Baun  drew 
the  air  from  the  windows  to  the  laboring 
lungs.  Mrs.  Bergen  was  on  the  other  side 
of  the  bed.  The  physician  leaned  on  the 
footboard.  His  inert  attitude  and  sorrow- 
fully impassive  visage  shot  the  awful  truth 
straight  to  the  lover's  heart.  With  a  stifled 
cry  of  exquisite  agony,  he  fell  upon  his  knees 

126 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!" 

beside  the  low  bed  and  laid  hold  of  one  of 
the  quivering  hands. 

"  My  darling !  my  darling !  O  GOD  !  I 
never  thought  of  this  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Mrs.  De  Baun.  "  She  seems 
to  know  nobody,  but  you  may  disturb  her. 
She  called  you,  about  an  hour  ago,  quite  dis- 
tinctly. She  has  not  spoken  aloud  since." 

"She  will  not  suffer  much  longer,"  the 
doctor  said,  presently,  as  the  restless  lips 
were  still  for  several  minutes  at  a  time.  He 
moved  to  her  side  and  felt  her  pulse. 

"  Please  GOD,  she  will  pass  quietly." 

Lengthening  distances  of  silence  divided 
the  fluttering  whispers.  The  outer  world 
was  stilling  into  the  hush  that  reigned  in  the 
upper  chamber.  The  rain  was  a  muffled  pat- 
ter that  did  not  awaken  the  wet  leaves.  The 
damp  air  had  in  it  suggestions  of  the  fallen 
locust-flowers,  and  the  fan  brought  it  in 
measured  breaths  over  the  bed. 

The  bed  where  Ruth  lay  a-dying !     While 

Robert's  eyes  never  left  her  altered  face,  re- 
127 


Ruth  Bergen's  Limitations 

lentless  memory  conjured  up  a  hundred  vis- 
ions of  what  she  had  been,  and  what  she 
could  never  be  again. 

Just  one  week  ago  to-night !  He  groaned 
aloud.  The  tricksy  sprite  who  had  waltzed 
away  from  him,  balancing  herself  on  tiptoe 
to  look  over  her  shoulder  at  the  swirling 
skirt  of  the  gown  she  was  so  innocently  vain 
of  making  all  by  herself;  the  fond  and  frank 
pupil  who  had  gazed  up  at  him  from  her  low 
stool  and  feared  that  she  loved  him  better 
than  her  own  soul — flitted  between  him  and 
the  graying  mask  on  the  pillow.  She  had 
always  done  what  he  would  have  her  do. 
Surely  she  would  not  leave  him  now  if  he 
could  but  make  her  hear  and  comprehend  his 
need  of  her. 

He  raised  himself  to  her  ear  so  abruptly 
that  no  one  could  hinder  the  mad  movement, 
and  called  her  aloud,  imperatively,  in  a  pas- 
sion of  entreaty. 

"  Ruth  !  my  love  !  my  love  !     Come  back 

to  me ! " 

128 


"Dying,  Sir!  Dying!" 

Her  body  shook  and  thrilled  as  flame 
wavers  in  the  wind.  Her  fingers  contracted 
upon  his,  then  broke  from  his  hold.  Her 
arms  were  tossed  free  of  the  coverings,  her 
eyes  opened  wide.  A  thin,  shrilling  cry  that 
was  not  her  voice,  quavered  forth  from  lips 
that  could  not  move  : 

"  O  Robert !  They  have  taken  away  my 
Lord,  and  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid 
Him!" 

Dear  Christ !  wounded  in  the  house  of  Thy 
friends  in  this,  our  day,  as  in  Herod's !  into 
Thy  hands  we  commit  this  blinded  soul ! 


Thou  who  takest  away  the  sins  of  the  world, 
Have  mercy  upon  us! 


129 


A     000128905     7 


